Wandering
by Xix Crane
Summary: Turning from monster to animal to slave. From Persia to the foundation of the Palais Garnier in Paris. How a ghost becomes a man and gains a name. (Sequel to Rosy Hours Redux, will eventually be part of a larger story)
1. The Bear

When the music stopped, the moaning started. The two figures writhing in the encroaching dark at the edge of the firelight knew by now that when he put down his violin, he would take up his tasks with them. Truthfully, he didn't feel like resuming his business; he had been at it for a while now, it was growing late, and his arm hurt from the bear bite.

He lowered his violin, leaned against the log at his back, and gazed up at the darkening sky. The brighter colors were washing away in the black tide of night, the first stars starting to wink into existence.

He felt many eyes upon him there in the forest. From the woods, he could see another pair of stars in the dark - no doubt the bear, watching from the trees and waiting its turn, its glimmering eyes caught in the firelight. Under the open sky, he was certain he could feel God watching him, judging his every sin - and how he had been busy with his bloody work!

 _What did you expect when you made a twisted creature like me?_

And as always, he felt Nadir's eyes upon him, unseen, internal, forever saddened by what his boy had become. Nadir had known, of course, that he was sending him out to a cold, hard world and that world had made him a cold, hard man. Would Nadir even recognize his boy now?

Nadir had forbidden him from killing, prohibited him from hurting others except in self-defense. He had tried to be a good boy, tried to stick to the straight and narrow after fleeing Persia, but the world was a terrifying place, dangerous and merciless, and survival begged compromise.

Onward, through the ruthless, savage terrain to India, he traveled to where he was certain his jewels would fetch a pretty price. He had been more comfortable fighting against an unforgiving landscape that looked to starve him and cut him to ribbons than having one conversation with a member of the human race.

In the bazaars, he stood out with his odd Persian clothing, light skin, and strange mask. He felt the eyes of every crowd drawing to him and he wished to flee but he tried to be brave, fumbling at the watch when he needed a bit of courage, feeling it ticking steadily against his palm. In his hurry to be done with human interaction, he let go of some of his better jewels for far less than what they were worth.

He pressed on, driven out by his fear of humans and their curiosity and hatred of him. He was as strange a sight to the Chinese as they were to him but all of the books he had read about this incredible country did no justice to the real thing. Each region had its own distinct charm and a man could easily get lost in its splendors, let alone an adolescent with a head full of useless dreams and a thirst for beauty.

It was in China he'd picked up quite a few bad habits, even with Nadir's voice still ringing in his ears. While he was always a strange sight no matter where he went his appearance was softened by the fact that he was sometimes the only foreigner around and therefore a curiosity for reasons other than what was hidden beneath his mask.

He had allowed himself to come closer to humanity in China, more easily approached the people there. In a stroke of rare luck, he met a doctor who was willing to tutor him in medicines and eastern techniques in exchange for a lengthy examination of his deformity, even taking a few photographs that the doctor swore to keep for his own scientific use. He was almost pleasantly comfortable with being an object of medical curiosity, as he was interested in the root cause of his disfigurement as well.

When the doctor brought back the photos after they were developed, he saw his image for the first time absent a mirror. While he knew what to expect, the picture weighed on his heart nonetheless; stripped of his finery and artifice, his flesh made bare, he looked like a mockery of a human being - twisted, strange, monstrous.

Perhaps it was this image that drove him to escape into the worst of his indulgences, regardless of the sound of Nadir's imagined admonitions in his mind. He sought refuge from the racing, unkind thoughts that tormented him at all hours in the opium dens of the cities.

The princess had introduced him a few times to hashish and opium, but very rarely and he was never allowed to have his own pipe. Nonetheless, he developed a taste for it as it was a way to derail his runaway thoughts and still his mind. With no formal duties to attend to, with no one to hold him back, with no standards to adhere to, he fully indulged his cravings, spending hours, days, weeks, wrapped in a velvet fog of distant dreams. When the money ran out, his magician's tricks transformed into tools of thievery; no pocket was safe from his nimble fingers.

All good things come to an end and his trance of pleasure was crudely undone one crisp morning. He came down from his castle in the sky to find himself stripped down and in a cage, most likely meant for a dog, somewhere in the back of a dark, small room. Her quickly surmised the den owners had taken advantage of his numbed state, no doubt peered beneath his mask, and had decided for themselves that they had a profitable freak on their hands that they could keep locked up. That was true when he was a child, but he was a grown man now, with years of practice in deadly arts behind him.

When his captors came back, they seemed surprised to find him fully alert. They would soon be surprised by more than just his ability to bounce back quickly from any intoxication.

As they started discussing this or that regarding their newly-captured treasure, he decided to explore the powers of his voice. He was stunned by how easily he was able to manipulate them just by altering his tone. He had done things like this before, once when trying to steal a kiss from an odalisque and again to put the Persian court to sleep, but now he let his voice run free, testing and reveling in his powers.

With just a few honeyed words, he turned the two into his personal servants, docile and helpless to disobey him. They unlocked the cage. They fetched him his clothes. They brought back his satchel, his violin, and most importantly, his three treasures - the mirror, the pocket watch, the ring.

When he was dressed and ready to leave, he glanced at the two who sought to imprison him, standing before him with glazed eyes, beholden to his voice and awaiting his commands. He wasn't sure what to do with them; after all Nadir had said not to kill…

* * *

The limits of his fidelity to the oath he swore were further stressed and strained as he crossed back into Russia. When he saw his two former captors, how could he deny himself this incredible opportunity?

At the Makaryev fair at Nijni-Novgorod, he picked up a few coins fiddling on the street, scanning the crowds for any sign of jade-green eyes. Instead he spotted something he would recognize anywhere - his cage, the one he had lived in as a child. To see it sent a jolt of pure electricity racing from the crown of his head down through his spine. Oh, was it a dream? He had to know if it was true or just another apparition conjured by his desperate mind…

No, he would know it anywhere; it was real enough. Although he rarely got to see the exterior of it when he was a child, and the years had worn it down, he still recognized the scrolling embellishments, the faded red and gold paint, the comfortable dimensions, the familiar bars…

From a distance, he could see a figure within it, laying on the hay-covered floor. His heart seized wondering what poor creature was now trapped inside…

His curiosity was soon satisfied; his former captors, Raito and Sylvester, came to the door of the cage, whips and pistols as always in their hands. Seeing them again after so long still sent an ice cold wave of fear cascading through his gut but then he saw how they had aged, how they seemed so weak. And he knew his own strengths.

He watched as they snatched up a chain and, yelling in their crude way, pulled and prodded a bear from the cage. Its black fur was tatty from neglect and, although it was small enough to still be an adolescent, it was emaciated, its skin hanging loose. It had chains on its legs and a tight leather muzzle biting into its snout. There was no light in the pathetic creature's eyes, only numb resignation.

He kept to the shadows and to the crowd cover, riveted to his former captors' new act for the rest of the fair's few remaining days. The bear was forced to stand on its hind legs, balance on barrels, do demeaning tricks, and there was always a whip on its back. He felt every lash against his own marked skin. His boiling anger turned to cold resolve and a terrible, black joy that he couldn't resist plunging headlong into began winding around his heart.

Soon enough, the pilgrims dispersed, the crowds moved on, the travelers went on the road. He followed at a safe distance as to not be seen but close enough to keep up with the slow-moving carriage. The others on the road peeled away until it was just their wagon, the cage rattling along behind it. How he knew these roads well! These trees and rocks practically knew him by name - if only he had one.

When there was just their carriage on the road, he decided it was finally time to play. It was a beautiful summer day, clear skies above and sun falling through the tree branches like golden drops. He at last emerged from the trees and the shadows and walked at an easy pace behind the wagon, waiting for them to notice.

Eventually, they stopped and Raito hopped down to take a piss by the side of the road. He stopped too, standing quite a ways back but close enough to be spotted. It took the old monster long enough to realize he wasn't alone. He gave a startled yelp to see the lone, tall figure wrapped in a black cloak standing several paces behind their wagon. He waited and watched as Raito called for Sylvester. As that old man's face appeared from the driver's seat, it fell upon seeing him.

Did they know it was him? He wanted to leave no room for doubt. He raised the brim of his hat, certain his eyes were lit under the shade. Seeing their faces drain of color brought a smile to his lips - his terrifying, maddening smile. Oh, he felt his heart leap with unbridled joy to see a wave of panicked realization wash over them! He completed the verification by bringing out his violin and playing a joyful, jaunty tune, full of the thrill of happiness he felt and the rush of untold satisfaction of the revenge that lay before him. He laughed as they screamed and shouted and scrambled, whipping their old, tired horse, driving it on in a mad rush until they thought they were free of him.

They couldn't get far from him, not with all of that cargo, not with that weathered steed. He melted back into the darkness, trailing their carriage. He watched as they broke through the woods, easing the wagon off the main road into a clearing to set up camp. They scanned the thoroughfare, looking for any signs of the apparition from before but he was hiding in the bushes, watching from afar.

They hastily set up camp, choosing to huddle inside their wagon instead of sleeping under the stars on such a warm night. He crept close, hiding under the eave of their window, hearing them discuss what they had seen. How he loathed their voices! They went back and forth as to whether what they had seen and heard was real, settling that perhaps they had taken some bad wine, that they knew their former charge was still no doubt a slave to the shah.

He waited until the last light winked out and the sounds of their wretched snoring began, then, smiling, he pressed his bow to his strings and began to play. The candles were lit almost instantly, their frightened faces peering out into the pitch black night. He played and played all night long, knowing they were huddled inside, cowering in fear. He hadn't been this happy in ages and couldn't help laughing, adding his own mirth to his music.

Dawn finally came and he decided to give them a short reprieve. He crouched in his hiding place, watching and waiting for their decision as to their next move. They stayed indoors much of the day. He dared not creep closer while the sun was out and kept to the cool shadows. The poor bear lifted its head from time to time, wrapped in chains, no doubt hungry going so long without being fed.

 _Soon, soon…_

They eventually came out and went searching around but he was well-hidden and knew this game better than they. All they had on their side was brute strength and even that was waning. Darkness came and they packed up into their wagon once more, hiding and waiting for night to pass. With a sigh of heady anticipation, he snuggled his violin beneath his chin and once more began to play.

They had a plan this time; after a few hours of maddening music, Raito burst out of the door, waving a pair of pistols around and firing off a few bullets. One even lightly grazed his right arm; they would never know how lucky they were.

"Come out here, you devil!" Raito screamed wildly into the night. "We always knew you would come back, you dog! Stand out here and face us like the man you pretend to be!"

Sylvester was close behind, another firearm in his hand. The bear, startled by the sounds and the screaming, trembled in the cage.

He laughed once more; how sad and scared they were! He drank it in, throwing his voice all around, driving them deeper into insanity. They fired off more shots until he was certain they were close to emptying their pistols. It was time for him to show himself, anyways. He removed his hat - his wig had been lost a few years back - and his mask. He wanted them to see his face; he had grown uglier over the intervening years but they would surely still recognize him.

"Did you miss me, good messieurs?" He called out to them, stepping from the shadows. Their minds practically unraveled before his eyes with fear as he advanced upon them.

* * *

They were too easy to overpower. He wanted to savor his revenge and thus he tied them to a nearby branch, suspended in mild stress positions. He wanted them to be uncomfortable but not have a chance of accidentally hanging themselves or breaking a bone without his blessing.

His bravado faded as he approached the cage. By now, the sun was coming up and dawn's rays shone through the battered bars. What was he feeling? What was this cold snake crawling around in his guts? Was he afraid of being caged again? Was he excited by being so close to the object that contained his entire childhood world?

With shaking hands, he grasped the edge of the bars on the door and peered inside. The pitiful creature within stared back, wondering what fresh hell had come to it. Moved by its sad plight, he felt a rush of energy that allowed him to focus on picking the lock and getting the door open.

Gently, carefully, he took the bear by the chain and eased it out onto the grass. He was shaking with rage and sorrow to see the state it was in.

His first instinct was to get the muzzle off. With nimble fingers, he worked the tight leather until it fell away. Confused, scared, and perhaps animated by the first bit of freedom it had in so long, the bear instantly lunged for his left arm and bit down.

They stood there for several moments, the bear with his arm in its mouth. Whether from weakness or mercy or bewilderment, the bite wasn't very strong although it was firm enough that he heard a crack and suspected he had a light fracture.

The bear looked up at him with deep brown watery eyes, uncertain and afraid. Nature had a common language, that of kindness, and while he wasn't fluent, he did his best. He softly stroked the bear's broad head, using a gentle touch, attempting to convey that yes, he understood very well exactly how it felt.

The bear released his arm almost sheepishly. He gave it an affectionate scratch behind its ear and realized that the poor thing was toothless. Hot, angry awareness lanced through him; those beasts no doubt removed the bear's teeth as another safeguard against being bitten. He now had a good idea as to where to begin with those two.

He got the shackles off of its legs and the chain from around its neck and considered, for a moment, getting one of the pistols and ending this sad creature's life. How would it live on its own in the merciless wild, half-starved, toothless, muscles atrophied?

Then he considered that he had survived, had been surviving, and even if it was a form of twisted mercy, couldn't bring himself to do it. He raided the wagon and brought out everything edible inside to provide a feast for the bear, then turned his attentions to his two new projects.

Now as nighttime fell, the satisfaction of the long day indulging his desires left him tired, even sleepy for once in his life. with a sigh, he rose to his feet, prompting more moans and more writhing from the two tied to the tree branch. The fear in their eyes as he approached gave his heart a perverse thrill.

He looked down on these two men, two inhuman monsters who had infused his entire childhood with fear, terror, and hatred. He had made them strip down earlier, lashed them with their own whips, until he split the skin on their fat, mottled bodies so that they hung there caked in dried blood with a crowd of flies buzzing around then. They loomed so large in his memory but they were now just two sad, old, withered human beings. A lifetime of vices had drained them, aged them faster, had made them almost feeble. Nevertheless, he still enjoyed watching them squirm and cry and bleed.

Perhaps it was wrong to exact revenge on such decrepit things but he had to set things right, even if this was the wrong way. He owed it to the frightened, terrorized child he once was. He would heed Nadir's request and would leave them alive. The great booby was right - there was only one demon in this Hell that deserved to have her life extinguished by his hand - but he would let them suffer just a bit more. He lost his childhood to them; what was a few more hours?

Now he turned his attention to the second monolith of his mind - the cage. Why was he still so terrified to approach it and yet felt a deep reverence for it? He went to it, running his hand over the bars as he passed, and unhitched it from the wagon. Grunting and sweating, he dragged it out to the nearby field where he had set the poor old horse free. The old thing was still out in the pasture, half asleep, half puzzled by his strange actions, and flicked its ears in his direction a few times.

Trembling from head to toe, he approached the door at the end. The lock was broken and gone now; he couldn't get trapped inside. He took a deep breath and mounted the small steps, then crawled through the door and sat at the center, staring out from the bars.

How small it seemed now! His whole world had expanded and the inside of his old cage was almost claustrophobic...and yet strangely comforting. He swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to keep the tears from rising in his eyes, and reached out to the bars.

His hand was long and broad, the fingers knotted, almost skeletal, the veins prominent. He remembered in the earliest days of his childhood confinement, when he still didn't understand, he would reach out to the children on the other side and they would take his fingers and bend them around the bars, breaking them. It was a wonder he could do anything at all with his hands! He flexed his fingers, recalling how the shah had broken his hands too. Curious...all of that had seemingly made them stronger.

Without understanding why, he lay down on the hay. It was quite cramped and he drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He had expected to confront his memories after coming across those two evil brutes, and he was confident he was prepared to do so, but tears still welled up in his eyes and he struggled to fight them down.

They all came rushing in at once, those things he had kept hidden at the edges of his mind, as if they had spent too much time away from his thoughts and were eager to take the stage once more. Spiraling through time, he went further and further back to his very first memory - a dark room, a single, small window at the top that provided the barest light. Here, his eyes learned to adjust to this perpetual twilight.

A woman - his mother - would open the door at times and force food down his throat as quickly as possible or scrub him clean under a pitcher of cold water. She was terrified of him, and who could blame her? A little monster child who kept pawing at her and grabbing at her, begging for affection. She slipped a crude bit of burlap over his face and hit or pinched him if he tried to remove it; he learned to please her and keep the mask on.

And then one day there was another person in the room with her. That person, a large man with rough hands, tore the coarse mask from his face. This man was so startled by the sight of the deformity, he retched into his misshapen face almost immediately. Vomit poured into his vulnerable open nose and he began retching and crying himself. A few minutes later he was being pushed and pulled from the room. The world opened up - there were other rooms and furniture and light. Everything went so fast, he couldn't understand…

The first and last time he ever saw his mother clearly was when she stood on the stoop of their home, accepting a purse full of coins in exchange for the tiny terror she had birthed. The man shut him away in his first cage and as they trundled down the road into a world that was much bigger and more frightening than he could comprehend, he cried for her. She watched from the front door as he was taken away. In his faded memories, she was blond and a bit thin; she seemed a bit harried or worn through. Her expression changed in his memory; sometimes she was regretful, other times relieved.

From there, it was a life lived on the inside of a cage. It was difficult to adjust to but he learned to stay in the center and stay on display - or suffer the consequences. As a creature in a cage that didn't know how to communicate, he assumed he was just a simple animal like the others in the circuses and fairs. They were in cages. They weren't spoken to. They were poked and prodded and forced to perform. Wasn't that all he was?

Then came that priest - meddlesome fool! He was younger, idealistic, and went around the fairs, performing services as needed for those who were of the Catholic faith. This idiot, this imbecile, decided to make him his own little pet project, teaching him how to read and write and speak as if he were a human being. The priest should've known that when he taught his little pet animal to speak that he would ask why he was in a cage!

He remembered that rage that welled up inside of him when he saw the answer - a mirror! He was such a small, half-starved child then and yet the anger over this injustice wiped all rational thought from his mind. His hands shot through the bars and clamped down over the man's throat - the first life he took.

The second life snuffed out in his lethal grip was that man that used to be the third with the two monsters he had tied up back by the fire. He didn't know back then what the man wanted, entering his cage late at night, drunk, putting his hands all over him, but as an adult, he had a better understanding of just what disgusting thing he was after. After a bit of a scuffle, he had done what he needed to do to survive.

And then to Persia...That palace of dreams had come down all around him, mostly because of his own rash actions. From a thing locked away in a room to an animal in a cage to a slave in a palace to a monster in a maze..And now what was he? Not an animal, not a man; not bound, not free. A ghost flitting at the edges of humanity.

There was one person who always treated him with dignity but those memories were the most painful and intrusive. He was too old to bother with his fairytales of being reunited with Nadir and he chastised himself for still believing them. Why, if Nadir had been with him on his travels, he would have frozen his Persian ass off in the Russian winters or complained that the tea in China wasn't up to his standards!

...Even that was a fantasy. Nadir was well-traveled, intelligent, accepting. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have been so unreasonably kind, wouldn't have been able to reach out to a terrible, twisted creature such as himself. Nadir's kindness had probably cost him his freedom, if not his life. With every passing year he grew more certain that he wouldn't see Nadir, and wishing that he was somehow with him again was futile, useless.

A sudden craving for a pipe came on just as strongly as his emotions and he desperately wanted to wipe his troubles away on a welcoming cloud of opium but he committed to putting that behind him too. Hot tears tracked down his misshapen face and he let his sorrows sweep him into his troubled dreams.

* * *

When the sun came up on him again, it found him still huddled inside of his old cage. He blinked in the pink and gold light, his muscles a bit sore from being so tightly curled up all night. Slowly, he sat up, brushing the hay from his clothes.

Somehow, he felt stronger, felt as if something had changed within him but he wasn't sure what. He remembered the first time he had taken tea with Nadir, when he told him his grand scheme, an unruly, half-feral child's wildest fantasy...

.

.

" _Why don't you kill both of them? If you could so easily do it…"_

" _One day when I'm stronger...I will kill them both and take their money - all of the money that I've rightfully earned! - and — and buy a bigger cage!"_

" _A bigger cage? But you would be free then!"_

" _The cage is to keep the others out!"_

.

.

For the last time, he touched the inside of the battered bars. He gathered himself up and exited, stepping into the dew-covered grass. He walked back to where he had left the fire burning, the wagon, the two tied to the tree, but before he was out of view, he spared one backwards glance at his old home. It was so small now, broken, unable to hold anything else inside of it.

 _Goodbye…_

There was quite a commotion back by the wagon. Those two were making a racket, lots of yelping and yelling. Their voices were hoarse; they must've been at it for a while. As he approached the burnt out fire pit and the tree, a black shape quickly dashed away, clumsily crashing through the underbrush. The bear had apparently tried to take its turn with Sylvester; the man had a few claw marks and bruises from the bear's toothless bites on his body.

He had a last chuckle over their distress and then got to work undoing most of their knots. As soon as they were sufficiently undone that the two old men fell on their knees before him, he left them to their own devices. They whimpered and writhed and begged for mercy at his feet but they were already nothing to him, quickly fading from his concerns. He gathered up his satchel, wrapped his cloak around himself once more, and replaced his hat. Taking up his violin, he walked on down the road, playing as he considered his next move.

 _A cage..._


	2. The Cage

As a ghost, he was able to move carefully within crowds without attracting attention, moving within the darkness. There were places where the world was busy with its own concerns to truly take a good look at him, and that was especially true in big cities like Paris.

The first time he had come, he was young, fresh from Persia, nervous and terrified of the entire world. His erratic behavior drew more attention to him and thus he always kept moving, kept running to hide in any dark corner he found.

The city was just as Nadir said, and although it's splendors were different than the glittering, bold palace of Persia, they were just as beautiful to his eyes. And how good it was to hear his native tongue! He didn't know that he could even feel longing to hear French, as he had tried to distance himself from any country or language, yet his heart thrilled to listen to the people speak.

That night he held his first vigil at the incredible structure that Nadir had described - the Palais Garnier. The sight of it bathed his young mind in beauty and potential and yet to this temple, he was forever a sinner, forbidden to enter. He was sure his wretched appearance, made worse by a year on the run through the wilderness, would never be welcome, no matter how skillful he was at music, art, theater. They always wanted to _see_...and then they would regret it. No, his talent was never enough.

He waited for days in the shadows, watching the people come and go, looking for any sign of an Astrakhan cap or of the ballerina, but there was none. How many days did he foolishly stand as rooted as a statue, keeping watch? He keenly remembered the intense panic and grief he suffered when the realization finally hit him - Nadir wasn't there.

He had come back over the years, watching from afar, wishing to see him, willing with every ounce of strength he had to make Nadir materialize. His prayer went unanswered over the many years and today was the day he ceased his unspoken request.

Today he was far removed from that terrified, hopeful child he had been. It was time to shed all of the fantasies that had instead of sustaining his soul corrupted it. Each time he came and went without seeing his old friend, it felt as if he was being eaten up from within and he was done with struggling and fighting with these memories and dreams. He came to the Palais Garnier tonight to bid farewell to it and goodbye to his useless recollections and hopes.

He had started out late afternoon in the Bois, sticking to the shadows until the sun had started to set. The people of Paris came to these manicured grounds to pass the hours and he watched them from afar, hidden in a nook or by some gloomy, shaded tree.

He entertained himself watching the normal lives unfolding before him - shy couples, teasing details from each other through coy conversation, parents struggling to contain their excitable children, older people taking a moment to shakily set down on a bench with a comfortable sigh.

He saw a man pass by, polishing a pince-nez as he walked. For a moment, he imagined that perhaps Nadir and his little friend had gone strolling through here, perhaps even arm in arm like any other amorous pair. In his happiest dreams, they were able to walk on forever, to walk away from the constraints of the stage, from the pressures of palace life, from his own wickedness.

In his worst, most prickly reveries, he imagined that a woman might agree to go for a walk in the Bois with _him_ , would take _his_ arm if he offered it. She might glance up at him coquettishly, her eyes half obscured by the netting on her fashionable hat, and when it grew late in the day and they could find some secluded shaded area, she would offer her rosebud lips to him to steal a kiss…

 _Utter madness!_

Now, after night had fallen, he stood in the shadows by the Palais Garnier and watched the men and women arriving for a night at the opera, his useless dream continuing. He took note of how the fashionable young men - his peers in another life - wore their tailored cashmere coats and glossy hats just so, offered their grey kid-skin gloved hands to the ladies as they exited their broughams. The ladies would flush from the prick of the crisp late fall air on their cheeks or the intention in the young men's eyes as they adjusted skirts of exquisite satins and silks. There were older couples as well, some bringing their adolescent children, each one outfitted in perfect yet appropriate imitations of their parents' attire, fussing over them to make sure they made a good impression on those who mattered. He used to make himself sick sitting there all night and dreaming of being a member of the human race like anyone else but he was ending this foolish pursuit.

How he hated these idiotic delusions of his! Desire for companionship, the intense craving for an understanding love, simple earth-bound lust - how he wished he could excise it from his heart with a surgeon's precision. A sorry magician who couldn't conquer this last trick, the alchemy of pure apathy just beyond his reach. Every time he thought that he had set himself far enough apart from the human race, these obscene needs, these ridiculous desires surged back like the tide.

There would be no woman who would take his arm, who would gift him a simple kiss, who would do anything with him that would possibly lead to having any children. There was no angel who would stoop from Heaven and grant him mercy. Truthfully, he knew he didn't deserve it.

Now the monied old men were rolling up to the front steps, alone at the opera without their wives or out with their mistresses. If he waited here all night until the performances were over like he used to, he would see them leaving with some of the little dancers from the corps.

It was easy recognize the little rats because the girls were rail thin from being overworked on the stage and their little collarbones stuck out from the tops of their dresses. Some of them were young enough that their mothers were invited to dinner as well; many were left to fend for themselves amongst this pack of wolves. They reminded him of the slave girls of the harem that he worked besides, little frail things that started out with wide, watery eyes and within a short time transformed into cold, resigned creatures.

 _Some chains are better than others…_

Tonight, he ended his vigil early. There was no point in looking for Nadir nor his friend; it was obvious over all of these years that they weren't there, would never be there. He turned his back on the Palais for the last time and made his way back to what he considered his home for the time being.

Just as some chains were better than others, some cages were better than others as well. His cage was bigger these days, sturdy, beautifully crafted, and kept the teeming masses away from him. While he cut a menacing figure as a full grown man, much more than when he was just a boy on the run, the thought of a mindless mob finding him, coming for him with their grabbing, grasping hands, ready to rip him to shreds still inspired a cold, piercing terror. He kept moving, kept to his cage…

His business was familiar enough, a theme on his humble beginnings. He advertised as he always did - "the music of heaven, the musician from hell". The audience would be drawn into his dark, black tent by his music, the gloom within already casting a spell on their minds once they slipped inside. They'd drop their coins into a receptacle fashioned to look like bodies of angels and demons writing in ecstasy and agony. When he had a cozy number of them on the benches before him, he would drop the heavy curtain at door to the tent, sealing them inside.

He had levers and such so he could do this all from his cage with very little movement but to the unobservant and halfway-bewitched spectators, it seemed like magic. He made his cage the focal point, raised high enough to keep their hands away, looming over them, making himself larger than life while still allowing them a good look at him.

Within the cage, he would appear in his fine clothes that he paid more than their worth for, fiddling away on his new and brightly polished violin. There was a finely crafted half mask on his face and it drew their eyes, made them wonder what he was hiding. He would play on, his music winding itself inside their ears, their hearts, their minds. If they were fortunate, he would do a few simple magic tricks. If they were truly blessed, truly deserving, he would open up his voice.

Even without fully applying its true power, his voice could drive the crowds into a frenzy of adoration, possession, enchanting them and ensnaring them. That was dangerous as well, because when he reached the finale, when he gave them what they wanted to see, they would turn against him with equal fervor.

The old routine retained the same ending because it worked. He finished the set with a bow and as he came up, he ripped his mask and wig away with a flourish, leaping to the front of the bars to give them a good look.

How they screamed! How their faces drained of color, went stark white! They would vomit, they would faint, they would crush each other in a mad rush through the exit. They wanted to _see_ and when he let them, how they would regret it!

The cage came in handy here. With this barrier, their instincts to form into that mindless, unthinking group that would tear him to shreds with their hands was muted. The monster was locked up; they were safe. He was safe, too. Even if they tried - and some did - their hands wouldn't reach him inside the bars.

Once the show was over, they would then leave him in peace. He would collect himself, begin playing again, and wait for the next crowd to come in.

His time in Paris was lucrative enough. He wouldn't stick with this fair but move on by himself, perhaps taking time to seek out solitude. When he was alone in nature, with nothing but the majesty of the hundreds of millions of stars in the black velvet sky, he began to feel that perhaps, perhaps...he belonged on this earth, that he was a valid creature, that his heart could find peace.

It didn't last long - nothing ever did - but it was restorative and allowed him the courage and the fortitude to face humanity again as necessary. There was nothing so thrilling to him as crossing a doe in a field, or watching the first colors of autumn creep into the trees, or swimming in the cold, black, merciless ocean in the dead of night, alone and at one with the dark creatures in the deep.

He kept his mind centered on these pursuits as he finished out his last weekend in Paris. The crowds were good, he was busy, and the money was pouring in. He soldiered through these last few groups, keeping his eyes unfocused so that he wouldn't see their expressions of horror and revulsion. The sickness he felt from being so close to humanity was beginning to overwhelm him and he was anxious to get back on the road, to burrow deep into solitude and silence once more.

It was already quite late and if he had wanted to make good money, he should've opened his business a few hours ago, but it had been important to him to come to the opera house tonight.

Truthfully, he didn't care much for money, but it was necessary. If he wanted to eat, have new clothes, or anything else, he could steal. Money bought dignity, money bought peace.

If he wanted boots made to his specifications, money didn't just purchase the leather and the labor; extra cash bought him the ability to ask the cobbler to stay open later, to keep the staring eyes of the public away. Many times having that extra money kept the shopkeeper's lips sealed, kept their fearful eyes off of him and his mask while they finished their transactions. Nadir was right; he was a child of the palace and he had expensive tastes, but he couldn't deny himself at least a few luxuries in this lonely life.

Money bought him the materials to make a cozy carriage for himself, one with trap doors from top to bottom to slip through if the mob came calling. Money bought him time to consider what he wanted to do next.

Money bought him silence from those around when he was gripped with the sudden madness of the music that had come into his mind unbidden and demanding before his last unfortunate visit to the rose garden. He would work on it at all hours and when people came to complain, he dropped enough coins in their hands to free him from their interruptions.

Sometimes the money wasn't enough. The music was maddening enough for the creator; the unwilling audience many times couldn't tolerate it, even for ever-increasing sums of money, and he was forced to move on from whatever encampment temporarily accepted him.

There was only one or two more performances to fit in before the end of the night. His tent was crowded and the groups came in ebbs and flows like the tide. The space would fill up to capacity and the moment where he revealed himself, they would leave all at once in one terrified and disturbed mass.

At the end of his next to last set, standing with his back to the benches to readjust himself, he caught sight of a lone figure standing at the back out of the corner of his eye. Not completely peculiar; sometimes those who didn't get enough the first time stayed for a second round.

"Should you stay for the last show, you will need to pay once more. Please deposit your money in the box and take your seat," he said, smoothing his wig back into place.

"I heard about your act, Monsieur, and had to come to see that it was truly you. I've seen you before, you know."

It was a woman's voice! Odd...It was mostly men who stayed for another show.

He replaced his mask, a bit perturbed by this woman's insistent tone. "I am hardly surprised, mademoiselle. You see, I am a sort of Don Juan, and once a woman has seen me, she will never, ever forget me…"

"A scholar, architect, musician, composer, and inventor...locked in a cage." Her voice was closer now. "Monsieur Khan would be disappointed to see you this way."

At the name, he whirled around, eyes ablaze. There at the edge of his cage was Nadir's friend, the ballerina, clad all in black as if in mourning. These intervening years had set a few hard lines in her stern face but it was undeniably her. He fell to his knees, scrambling to the edge of the cage and wrapping his hands around the bars.

"It's - it's you! Mademoiselle - - "

" _Madame_ Giry now. I haven't been mademoiselle for a long time."

"Madame…" His heart was thrumming hard in his chest, his mouth suddenly dry. All of the words he wanted so desperately to speak now failing him.

"And you?"she asked. "Are you still just Monsieur?"

He merely nodded. He had tried out a handful of names over the years and the miles and none had quite stuck. When he gathered the momentum to speak again, all he could manage to say was another name, the one that mattered most to him. "Nadir - ?"

She shook her head sadly. "Monsieur Khan hasn't written me for years."

" - But he wrote you?"

"Why?" She raised an eyebrow. "Did you expect him to not be able to write me?"

"I'm not sure…" He trailed off, his mind calculating what this all could mean. Finally, he said, "I came to look for you for years. I stayed by the Palais all hours of day and night and never saw you. If I would've known where you were -"

"I was at the Palais, Monsieur, but I come early and stay late. I'm the ballet mistress now; perhaps you missed me at the stage door."

His cheeks flushed with heat and he felt ridiculously stupid in that moment. He was always too frightened to approach the theater closely...Did he ever check the stage door? He couldn't recall…

"Now that I've seen that it's you - and have seen what you've become - I have a proposal for you."

"Proposal?"

"As ballet mistress," she continued, "I have the ears of the managers - at times. I think you should come see me tomorrow after hours. It could just be us. I could arrange for you to audition for a place in the orchestra at least, start there. You would be...brilliant. This cage shouldn't contain your genius."

"Audition?" he sneered. "I would never be accepted -! Chavret said I belonged in a -"

"Monsieur Chavret is gone. The other performers who came to Persia so many years ago have mostly moved on. No one would remember you there. And besides...your talent surpasses all of that. It's what Monsieur Khan believed."

"Nadir was a fool -!" He tried to spit it out, tried to color his words only with harsh bitterness, but there was an undeniable fiber of sorrow and frustration at the foundation of his voice. He turned from her, ashamed.

"Yes...I suppose I admired that about him. He had such dreams, saw things so differently than I. I'm practical and life has taught me to avoid disappointments. I clearly understand why you would want to keep to what's safe - and obviously successful for you." She turned from the bars to make her way to the exit. "Nevertheless, I am glad to have seen you once more, Monsieur. I hope that we cross paths again, especially if you decide to consider my proposition. Come wait by the stage door; I usually leave later in the evening and come early in the morning."

"But -!" He said, pressing against the bars again, his fingers curling tight around them. "You know what I am and what I've done! There's...there's no coming back from...from…"

She paused and turned around again. "Monsieur Khan forgave you. For what it's worth, I forgive you too. But if you're looking for more potent forgiveness, perhaps you could look to a higher power if you believe in that sort of thing...Regardless, you don't need to be an angel to play at the opera. In fact, it's probably better if you aren't one."

"But - but - !"

"Goodnight, Monsieur," she said, cutting him off definitively. "Whatever your decision, I would like to see you again….but not in a cage. Come see me at the stage door."

Making it clear she was finished with this conversation, she strode quickly out of his tent, leaving him in silence.


	3. Requiem

The crowds went back to their regular routines, the fair moved on, but he remained behind. The travelers were glad to shed the strange outsider who appeared and disappeared from their mist like a ghost. They left nothing but a field of flattened dew-covered grass behind and his wagon standing by itself at the far end near a cluster of trees. His money made him just barely tolerable but his absence was preferable; the group was happy he wasn't continuing with them to the next stop.

He stayed in Paris another few days, trying to come to a decision. He was packed up, his belongings safely stowed away; he could just as easily stroll into town as flee to the countryside. He sat inside of his wagon, windows shuttered and in the dark, knees nervously bouncing up and down, his mind darting between moving out to the country and forgetting the impossible proposition and trying to gather up the courage to make it to the stage door, between trying to forge a connection with the one person who knew his only friend in the world or returning to a solitary existence, giving up on human contact unless necessary.

It wasn't just others he couldn't trust; he had demonstrated time and time again that there was a wild streak within him, unmanageable and dangerous. Could there be any way to tamp down that evil that a lifetime of cruelty had inspired? Forgiveness, absolution, transformation of his most wicked self into a being that could perhaps walk amongst men...where would he ever find it? He let his horse have extra slack in his rope so that it could wander further afield and made his way back to the city center, feeling that a decision would come to him one way or another if he at least passed by the stage door…

Moving in tight circles, he made several approaches to the Palais, always balking at the last minute and dashing away. He found the stage door; it was rather tucked away, easy to get trapped up close to someone else who might get a good look at him, who might be frightened of a man in a mask, who might make a scene. He watched a few actors, stagehands, dancers, singers, and other staff file in and out but not one glimpse of who he was searching for.

With his violin tucked under his arm, he felt ridiculous, lurking in the shadows.

 _An audition! You? They would never...You're only a…only a….!_

When shame and uncertainty began to catch up with him, he would bolt once more, making laps around the surrounding buildings, trying to pull himself together.

Late into the night, the theater finally let out. First, the patrons left by the front, then the entertainers and staff began trickling out the back. Swathed in shadows, his coat and scarf pulled tight around him, his hat lowered, he struggled to control his anxious breathing. One hand wrapped around his middle and lay flush against his cloak; beneath all of the layers, the watch kept a steady, soothing rhythm in his waistcoat pocket.

The stage door opened, a slice of pale orange light in the dark, and a swell of laughing, loud, cacophonous voices burst forth. A gaggle of ballerinas poured out, teasing, complaining, joking, whining. The sight of this potentially dangerous pack of girls was enough to send him over the edge. He stumbled back, gasping, his violin case scraping against the wall.

In unison, their voices dropped, their heads turned, their eyes fixated on him. From the back of the crowd, a lone figure in black appeared within the colorful riot of dresses and shawls - Madame Giry. He made a bare bit of eye contact with her before he turned and fled into the night, hardly able to hear her calling for him above the rush of hot blood in his ears.

* * *

When his mind cleared, he found himself weaving through a graveyard, slipping through shadows cast by headstones and mausoleums, as convincing as any ghoul from a penny dreadful. He leaned against a cold, stone angel that passively watched over him as he caught his breath. There was no way forward - he couldn't pretend to be a man, aspire to be human.

 _Unless…_

In the small sliver of moonlight, the hard, grey outline of a church stood in relief against an inky blue-black sky. Forgiveness, transformation, petitioning a cruel creator for mercy and strength...Couldn't he try - if only to say he did? Couldn't he play along just this once? It couldn't hurt, could it? He nodded, resolute. He would make an effort, come to God on his knees, obey the rules and make a true entreaty to whatever divine being might hear his wretched voice.

At this late hour, it was likely that no one was currently tending the church. As there was no door that could bar him, he easily found his way inside. Although he had been surrounded by Catholicism, both by the traveling priests in the carnivals and those from the mission in Persia, he had never been inside of a church before. The smooth, polished floor was soothing but the soaring arches, the flicker of candles in sconces, the rows of stocky pews made him feel boxed in, trapped. In the windows, stained glass images of saints writhing in holy suffering, darkened in the night, made prickles run up and down the back of his neck.

With hesitant steps, he approached the centerpiece of the church - the altar - gilded and finely crafted. Above it hung a carved representation of Jesus Christ. To him, it was obscenely gruesome - a crucified body, eyes rolling upwards, wounds dripping in freshly-painted red blood. As someone who had put that expression in men's faces by his own hand, had unleashed torrents of blood himself, he was appalled that this was the ultimate representation of the divine the congregants gathered around.

Was this the image of the Catholics' God? Is this who he was to offer prayers to? There was little question that intense, bloody suffering was a necessity for passage into salvation; he was certain he qualified. He went to his knees before the altar, clasping his hands, his knuckles tucking up under his lips. Just one word came to him and he repeated it over and over, hoping that it registered, that it made some kind of sense…

 _Please…_

A scrape and a shuffle interrupted his silent supplication. Ready to flee once more, he jerked his head towards the sound. An old man was halfway crouched behind a row of candles, watching him with huge, terrified eyes. Both of them had apparently scared each other. The old man seemed alone; nevertheless, he eyed the exits in case he needed to run. There was no reason for any of them to hide but he stayed on his knees as the old man crept nearer so as not to alarm him further.

"Forgive me for startling you. I don't like to be around others so I let myself in, but I can leave now," he said, watching the man edge closer and closer.

"Well...You must've wanted to be here very badly. It seems like you're looking for something." The same wary fear that many wore when they saw him was evident in the old man's face. He felt suddenly forsaken and exhausted and wanted yet another miserable exchange with a human being to end so that he could go back to his solitude.

"I'm the priest here...Perhaps I could help you find what you're searching for?"

He sighed and considered leaving, but didn't he say he would try, that he would play along just once? Was this the method to petition God? He remembered the confessions the little princess forced him to do with the mission priests. She would watch as the priest grew more and more red faced and terrified with each new horrific act he would confess to. Sometimes, to make her laugh, when he was receiving communion on his knees, he would pretend to snap and bite at the priest's trembling fingers as he brought the wafer to his twisted lips.

"I'm not certain what, exactly, I'm seeking...Salvation, transformation, strength…"

Hearing a familiar request, the old man settled into his role as conduit of the divine. "God can grant you all of these things. You have to be ready to repent, to be open to change."

"...I am."

"If you wish to confess…"

"You wouldn't want to hear it. God knows what I've done."

"That's true...but there's power in confession. If you pour it out, you can become an empty vessel ready for His love and His actions." The priest nodded, growing confident now that he was in comfortable territory.

He sighed. "I suppose...I could try."

Recalling his last confession, he estimated what deplorable acts he had committed since then. Once he started thinking on them, the words started coming out, more words than he had spoken over all of these years to anyone. He was back in the maze, surrounded by a thousand ugly reflections of himself, winding through endless corridors of blood-spattered pain and misery reproduced over and over, looking for a way out.

When the words finally ran dry, he realized the old man had gone dead white, eyes locked wide open. More than ever before, he regretted speaking to another person - unless God was looking to personally register His shock and displeasure through one of His envoys.

"...A cleansing...You could benefit from...a cleansing…" The old man finally stammered. "A new beginning! A rebirth! That's what you want...that's what would be best, yes."

He staggered behind the altar, bringing out several holy tools in preparation to scourge the evil from this apparition before him. Without much of an explanation, the priest quickly whipped a silver aspergillum back and forth, mumbling about cleansing sins, sending sprinkles of holy water over him.

He was a bit insulted - did the old man think him a literal demon? Well...it wouldn't be so far from the truth. More than anything, this impromptu holy water baptism was inconvenient; it was sure to make his drawn-on eyebrow run.

"And - and now that you've completed confession, you're ready to receive the Eucharist, the body and blood of Christ, to be one with God."

"I understand," he said, steeling himself for the ritual and feeling more and more uncomfortable with everything - the proximity to a human being, the actions, the words, the prayers, the petition to the Almighty. Perhaps this was another wrong move, but also the sign he was looking for. He would retreat and retract, forget the stage door, give up his useless dreams, stop wishing to be made into a whole flesh and blood man. The priest turned back to him, wine and wafer in hand, the rheumatic fingers trembling with age or fear.

The old man looked down at him, contemplating the mask. "...I'm afraid that's in the way...can you remove it?"

He paused, feeling the weight of the mask for once against the half of his malformed mouth.

Hesitantly, he asked, "...Would you accept that God made me?"

"Of course," the old man answered, no hesitation in his words but his eyes growing wider, his pupils constricting. Everyone did want to see, after all, even if they hated what they saw.

"Very well." His hand reached up to palm the mask, lifting it from his face. Within seconds of the reveal, the old man's mouth pulled tight, the eyes went wild, the face went white. He stood, riveted to the spot, staring with open shock and revulsion, for far longer than was comfortable.

"...sir?"

The old man didn't answer. As he began to rise from his knees, the priest passed him on the way down, collapsing on the marble tiles, dead before he reached the floor.

He stared down at the prone, lifeless body; he had unwillingly taken another life. The priest was very old, true; there was evidence of a tremor in his hands, his eyes were rheumy, his skin spotted and mottled with age. What he was doing managing a church on his own and creeping around in the dead of night was his own fault. It was his misfortune that a monster had come to ask for forgiveness from the divine and the task has fallen to the old man to hear his final repentance.

Watching the deep red wine seep out from the overturned golden chalice staining the man's richly embroidered robes, he felt more confident that looking for God here was a mistake. He had considered leaving the purse that sat heavy in his pocket with his earnings as penance for his sins and now as a payment for taking this man's life but from the sumptuous altar drapings to the gilded tabernacle to the polished marble steps, he felt that any money he offered would only go towards enriching the church. Besides, the days of paying for entrance into heaven had long passed.

He also considered moving the body but was afraid doing so would make it seem like a murder, and if anyone cared to investigate, he and perhaps the other travelers would make easy scapegoats. They didn't need that sort of trouble.

Replacing his mask, hat, and cloak, he turned his back on the priest, the golden altar, and the sculpture of an eternally suffering Christ and strode towards the door. Midway down the corridor, his eye was immediately drawn towards the magnificent organ way above the pews on the far back wall. Like everything else in this small church, it was needlessly lavish, perhaps in the baroque style, he estimated. He flexed his fingers, his hands aching to play. Would it hurt just to try it out, just for a moment?

He sprinted up the tight spiral staircase, was practically breathless as he approached the immense instrument. The keys were so inviting, begging him to lay his hands on them. The air around the pipes seemed as if it was just waiting to be spun into song. Adjusting the bench, he sat before the organ, basking in its majesty. He depressed the keys and one potent, wailing chord burst forth shaking him to his foundation, electrifying every nerve in his body, drawing his soul up and out with the sound.

Without a moment's hesitation, music began to pour from his fingers and it didn't take long for him to realize it was a requiem. A requiem for the priest, a requiem for his dreams of playing at the Palais Garnier, for the stage door, for Nadir, for Madame Giry, for his illusions of being a man. To be a ghost, there first must be a death, and he felt his desire for humanity slipping away with the majestic sound.


	4. The Letter

When the church was finally at his back, faint rose-colored rays were seeping into the edges of the dove-grey morning sky. Empty and unseen, he roamed the streets, a wraith in men's clothing, unsure of where he was going. He felt unmoored; without his hope of seeing Nadir again, without his dream of becoming a human being, leaving behind the Palais Garnier, what was left for him to do? Stay in his cage?

There was the faint answer from the foundation of his heart...continue working on that dreaded and adored music, the one obsession he couldn't shake. Sometimes he felt he functioned only as a conduit for that intense creation, would wake up as if from a daze with reams of music before him that he didn't remember writing. Perhaps when he was finished with it, he could finally rest…

Paris began slowly coming to life around him. Workers dotted the streets here and there and, following only his instincts, he wove through the alleys and side streets whenever possible.

"Ah - a prince approaches," he said softly to himself as a large, shabby orange tomcat trotted up to him, greeting him with happy chirps and perked whiskers. He bent over and ran his hand from the top of the cat's broad forehead down its arched back, scratching behind the tattered ears and under the chin.

"Perhaps we will find a better use for this money, eh, your majesty? Let's see if there's a street vendor with some fish at this early hour…"

In his solemn daze, with his attention on the cat, he chastised himself for not hearing the pair of scuffed boots approach before they suddenly appeared at the edge of his vision.

The owner of the boots bravely, softly whispered "...your money, monsieur…"

 _Oh, this was too much!_

He slowly rose up, unfurling to his full height, and stared down at his would-be assailant. When he saw the pitiful creature before him who had made the gross miscalculation of threatening him, he had to pause.

A mere child stood before him, perhaps no older than 15. Whether it was a girl or a boy, he couldn't tell; the small stature and tatty clothing disguised any characteristics pointing either way. There was still a bit of baby fat in their cheeks indicating that a decent childhood was not far from memory, but their actions pointed to a desperation born of some recent hardship. Perhaps they were newly orphaned, had a sick parent or siblings to care for...Whatever the reason, the life of a back alley cutthroat was clearly unfamiliar to them.

They stood at least a good head, head and a half lower than him, and the surprise and fear evident in their eyes proved that they now knew they had made a mistake in picking him as their target. Perhaps seeing his thin frame hunched over, petting the cat with his skeletal hands, they mistook him as weak, elderly, less likely to struggle.

Regardless of their sudden realization that they had chosen the wrong person to steal from, they brandished an old, semi-dull knife with a forced bravado, trying to make this situation work. This was an act of despondency, and the only thing that stopped him from laughing was his understanding.

"Your money -! Quick with it -!" The child jabbed the knife towards him to emphasize their point, shifting from foot to foot, eyeing the best way to flee in case things went badly.

"Very well…" he said, slowly reaching into his coat, searching for the purse full of his earnings.. The alley cat was still winding around his legs, hissing and spitting at this tiny thief, only making the child even more nervous. Their eyes darted from the cat to his hand as it disappeared into his pocket.

The moment his purse appeared, heavy and full, the child's eyes grew wide with surprise and almost a kind of gratitude - for their luck, for God's generosity, for this strange opportunity. With anxious, trembling fingers, the child greedily grabbed for it. Before those fingers could close around the leather, the tomcat, in an act of mistaken vigilance, leapt at the child in a flurry of claws and teeth.

What happened next wasn't quite clear, the exact timing of events lost in the scuffle. The cat leapt forward, claws out, the child panicked and swung blindly, there was a burst of confusing, jumbled actions, they fell against the brick wall. Whatever details were lacking, there was only one main point - the knife found its way through the front opening in his coat and sunk into him at an inconvenient sideways angle.

The cat yowled, offended by almost being trampled, and bolted back into the early morning murk from where it first appeared. He leaned back, hissing with pain, the knife rudely projecting from a tear in his waistcoat. The child's face went white, eyes glued to the knife. He recognized many things in that expression - the realization of their first act of violence, the alarm that their one weapon was firmly embedded in a potentially dangerous and now wounded mark, the loss of what they thought was easy money.

In blind terror, the child reached for the knife and tried to pull it out, to recover the weapon and flee. As they jerked on the handle, he felt it scrape and lodge against his ribs. He pushed the child's hand away and stumbled back against the wall again, his back brushing the bricks as he sunk halfway down, the pain catching him off guard. He had surely suffered worse than a little knife to the ribs — he needed to pull himself together!

Seeing that all was lost, the child turned and began to flee, the agony of failure distorting that young face.

"Wait!" His voice was a rasp, the stuck knife and his aching ribs making it difficult to draw significant breath. Out of instinct or fear or curiosity, the child stopped, terrified eyes glancing over its shaking shoulder. He tossed the purse towards them; it landed with a heavy thud near their feet. To that bounty, he also added a knife that had served him well - sharp enough to gut a rabbit, easily concealed in a boot - dropping it with the handle facing towards the child. Their face contorted with confusion, desire, sorrow, and then the small hands closed around the two prizes. The child gave him a pained look of apology before turning and fleeing in the same direction the cat had gone.

He turned and wandered on, winding through the dark little side streets, cursing himself for being so weak. It was only a little knife wound — he had certainly suffered worse! - but with every yank and tug on the handle, the blade scraped on his ribs and tore at his flesh, making things problematic. Maybe all he needed to do was steady himself, take a deep breath, and give it a substantial pull….

"Monsieur!"

He hadn't realized that he had squeezed his eyes tightly shut and, at the sound of the voice, so close, almost to his face, they sprang open. Madame Giry was practically under his chin, staring up at him with her hard black eyes. He glanced around and realized he must've meandered back to the alley close to stage door of the theater as if he was subconsciously drawn back to this place.

"The dancers said there was some strange man in the dark alley moaning and making obscene gestures. I can't believe you would -"

She stopped talking the moment his hand fell away from his waistcoat and she saw the knife handle protruding.

"I'm sorry - I just need a moment —" he croaked.

"What you need is a doctor!" She hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow and pulled on him. "We have a medic on staff and -"

"No!" He yelped, pulling her back. "No doctors! I can….I can handle it, I just needed to rest…."

"At least come inside…!"

"No, I can't, I -" but his protestations died away as she pulled him through the stage door, down through the twists and turns of the dark backstage areas within the theater. She hauled him through the gloom to an out of the way office - her office - and flung him down on a threadbare cot hidden behind a ragged Japanese folding screen.

And that was it - that was how he had passed through the doors of the theater and made it inside the forbidden temple. How simple it was and yet all of those years, he could barely even come close to the front door! He lay still for a moment, taking shallow breaths, listening to the faint scuffle and bustle of the theater people outside of her office door, hearing the orchestra warm up in the pit, the sound of the singers practicing scales on the stage. Madame Giry's face hovered at the periphery of his vision, scowling at the knife handle at his side.

"This is absurd — I'm calling the medic -"

She jumped as his strong, cold hand wrapped firmly around her wrist. "No! No….I promise...it's nothing…."

"Nothing?!"

"I can feel it…I'm almost certain that...there's little to no organ damage…at worst, just a minor wound…"

"Minor wound!?"

"I just need to pull…" He gripped the handle once more with a groan. Before attempting to take it out, he took a series of shallow breaths, trying to steady himself. Madame Giry looked on with bated breath, scowling at his attempt. The swelling music from the rehearsal going on was somewhat muffled by the wooden door, and he blinked in realization.

"This is the opening scene of that wretched piece, _Hannibal_ , isn't it?"

Caught off guard, it took Madame Giry a moment to respond. "...yes, it's quite popular so we bring it back every few years."

"The book is full of such absurd purple prose, even for an opera," he sniffed.

"...These productions fund our better works."

"No need to tell me; I understand." He sighed and dropped his head back on the cot, taking a few more shallow breaths, feeling the way the knife was lodged around the bones, scraping at more delicate flesh within. It needed to come out before it caused real damage.

 _This trophy_

 _From our saviors_

 _From our saviors_

 _From the enslaving force —_

"Monsieur, I -"

— _of Rome!_

As the leading lady hit her high note, he yanked the knife out with a hard jerk, the swell of music drowning out one loud, long scream that poured from his mouth. Madame Giry jumped up, stunned as if she didn't expect him to pull it free. Thinking quickly, she grabbed a wad of muslin and pressed it to the wound to stop the bleeding.

"That was excruciating…" He panted, dropping the knife to the floor.

"It was just as painful to watch! Mon dieu! You must get real medical help, I'll -"

"Not the knife; that voice. My god, she was sharper than that blade! Is your music director deaf?"

The corners of the ballet mistress' mouth pulled down as if she didn't think this was the best time to be criticising the production. Sheepishly, he averted his eyes from her disapproving glare and turned his attention to the wound. Without the knife in the way, he was able to undo his shirt around his midsection just enough to get a good look at it.

"Could be worse...If you have needle and thread, perhaps some alcohol, I can take care of the worst of it and be on my way…"

"On your way? If you won't go to a doctor, you will at least stay for a night." Her eyebrow arched in disapproval as she rose and disappeared around the side of the folding screen. She reappeared with a bit of pink thread and a sturdy needle, no doubt for sewing ribbons on the dancers' slippers.

"...I couldn't intrude…." He meekly accepted the needle and thread, Wincing, he sat up and, dabbing at the blood, began to stitch up the offensive little wound. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that she was readying to register even more displeasure but they were both interrupted by the door banging open. She sprang to her feet, rudely throwing a blanket over him regardless of the work he was doing with the wound, and hurried around the corner of the screen.

"Mother! Valerie is going to - "

"Meg Giry! Where are your gaiters?"

As quietly as possible, he shuffled the blanket from his head and shoulders and found a little hole in the screen to peer through. He pressed the cloth to the wound to further stifle the bleeding as he watched Madame Giry deal with her visitor. A young girl, no older than perhaps nine or ten, was standing before the ballet mistress, dressed in the muslin skirt of a petite rat, a riot of blonde curls cascading down her back. Madame Giry had moved to the other side of the room, drawing the girl's gaze away from the back area with the screen and behind it, the intruder.

"I left them in the practice room but mother -"

"How many times must I tell you to wear them? You're ruining your slippers scurrying around the back of house without them."

"I'm going right back but mother -"

"And what is so important that you are wasting a free period that could be better served focusing on your art?"

" - Valerie is taking some of us with her on her errand and she says if we behave, we can pass by that new sweet shop that opened around the corner and down the way and I wanted to know if I could go with her!" The request tumbled out in a staccato flurry of words.

Without hesitation, Madame Giry said "No."

"But mother!" The girl stamped her satin slipper, little hands balling into fists at her side, ready to throw an immense tantrum.

" - _unless_ -" Madame Giry pulled up her chatelaine, opened a small purse and pressed a few coins into the girl's hand. "- you bring back some of those English toffees I like." She bent forward and, in a moment of tenderness that broke through her fierce demeanor, she landed a sweet kiss on the girl's forehead.

 _Ah! A mother's love!_

He watched through the tattered hole, entranced by the way her affection softened the hard lines of her face. The girl merrily chirped a few words of gratitude and traipsed out the door, fist curled tightly around the coins. There was a moment after the door shut when Madame seemed to gather herself before she decisively jammed a staff under the door handle preventing any further interruptions.

In a few quick strides she had crossed the room and come around the corner of the screen to check on her new charge. He sat half upright, still taking shallow breaths, half bundled in the rough, scratchy blanket she had tossed over him. She knew he had seen everything - her child, her moment of motherly kindness. Dark pink saturated her ears and crept around her high collar yet her cheeks stayed white.

He fumbled a few words in his dry mouth before managing to say "...your daughter?"

"Yes," she said, her thin lips setting again in a rigid line. Regaining her composition, she closed the gap between the edge of the screen and the cot, sitting on the edge. Her black eyes roamed over his stitching, examining the wound and avoiding the obvious question, the question that he tactlessly asked anyways.

"...she's not...she can't be...his…"

Her head snapped up and the look in her eyes pierced him deeper than the child's knife had.

"Don't be ridiculous." Her voice was low, the menace faint, only a warning this time to never walk this path again. "She's...she's not mine, either. As good as. One of our former ballerinas...but that hardly matters; I am her mother."

He swallowed down his shame at having voiced such a question as he finished the last few stitches. Of course, how silly, what was he thinking - the little blonde sprite didn't look like either of them. Whatever circumstances caused the woman who birthed her to give her away was inconsequential. After all, he himself had someone that cared for him - had cared for him - and there was no mistaking them for blood relatives.

The stitches complete, he sank back down with a groan. Exhaustion was teasing at the back of his brain and he wondered if he miscalculated the severity of the wound. In moments of weakness, thoughts of The Great Booby would come drifting through his mind like an unwelcome cloud of gnats, and he was reminded of his immense shortcomings, his sorrow, his unworthiness.

Madame Giry flitted like a shadow beneath the brim of his hat as she went around the screen again. There was the sound of a drawer smoothly opening and closing and she was back at his side once more.

"I thought you might like to see this," she said. He dislodged the hat, pushing it back, and stared down his mask's false nose at her outstretched hand. There was a envelope, worn around the edges but still neat, on good cardstock. "This is all I have of Monsieur Khan."

Now, like magic, the envelope transformed. It was a sacred object, it was a holy relic, it had a revelation written within. He whimpered as he sat up to take the letter from her hand with reverent fingers, feeling his stitches stretch and bunch around his wound. She was pleased with how delicate he was with the envelope; it was as precious possession to her as to him.

The letter was dated a little over ten years prior, around the time just after he had left Persia. The handwriting - firm, thin loops; slanted, quirky slices instead of dots over the i's - burned his eyes, made his vision swim with tears. Nadir's hand had passed upon this paper, had written the words that read -

 _Dearest Mademoiselle Giry -_

 _I wish this letter would bring glad news but I'm afraid that my second trip to the incomparable city of Paris has been postponed indefinitely. His Excellency the Shah is instead considering visiting Russia as their ballet is increasing in popularity and it has piqued His Eminence's curiosity. You know my opinion - that you and your performers are the finest that have ever graced a stage - but my opinion matters as much as a sparrow spitting in a forest. I will never for as long as I live forget your performances, mademoiselle; those in Paris and those here in my country._

 _As of this letter, I am to remain in Persia as The Shah requires my services. Perhaps one day I will be allowed to return but for the moment, that is impossible. Give all my best to your girls and the others who gifted us with their performances and my warmest regards to any other familiar mutual friend you might come across._

 _Your devoted friend,_

 _Nadir Khan_

He was far from the Persian palace with its flowery language and two faced conversations but he could still read between the lines well enough.

 _\- postponed indefinitely -_

 _\- requires my services -_

 _\- impossible -_

 _\- any other familiar mutual friend -_

Nadir must be imprisoned - what else could it mean? - and perhaps this letter was sent in the hopes that it would fall in his very hands as it did and draw him out. Oh, how he wanted to return, to ride in as an avenging angel and snatch Nadir from the cruelty of that golden cage, but it was futile, surely impossible, no matter how much stronger and smarter he had grown in all of these intervening years! Should he be caught, then what? His own pain he could bear but that's not how things worked in Persia...The memory of the shah's blade pressed against Nadir's tongue rippled through his mind.

These thoughts, this letter, this handwriting, these words triggered a cascade of emotions within him. It began as a tiny tremor in his hands and radiated down his arms and through his shoulders until he was hunched over, shaking. His wound rudely pulsed with pain, reminding him that he barely survived a brush with a desperate adolescent so please forget about facing down the Persian army! How useless he was, how unworthy of such a great man's sacrifice! All he had done was wander the earth, dulling his mind on opium, picking pockets and robbing shuttered shops, making his living as a circus freak!

He was unable to silence an abrupt, gasping sob and he suddenly felt so weak, so tired. Madame Giry plucked the note from his hands and hurried away, hiding it back in her desk drawer. He knew he should go, had already burdened her enough; maybe he could make it back to his camp to untie his horse before he allowed himself to succumb to his wound. It would be nice to be in the field, in nature, to see the stars one last time…

She was back, around the corner of the screen, sitting once more on the side of the cot. Without hesitation, she pulled him into her embrace, bringing his smooth cheek to rest on her shoulder.

"You poor man…" she whispered. "I've already lived with that letter for so long...I had forgotten the pain I had when I first saw it. I should've warned you…"

He shuddered within her arms, this gesture catching him off guard. The priest, the child, the knife, the letter, her kindness...so many things had taken him by surprise this day, he felt unmoored and unmade as if the guidelines of his reality were being reconfigured. His gut contracted painfully again; how kind, how exceptional she was! No wonder...no wonder Nadir had loved her so!

Now her hands were pushing his shoulders down until his back made contact with the cot. He mumbled a thin protest but she shushed him, brought a pillow behind him. When she removed his hat, through blurred eyes he saw her tense as his hideous bare head was uncovered but it was only for just a moment. It was his turn to tense up as her hand gently smoothed back the scraggly grey hair from his forehead.

She reached for his mask and through pure instinct, his hand shot up to stop her, his bony fingers wrapping around her wrist like a vice. Furrowing her brow, she batted his hand away as if his deadly grip was a mere nuisance.

"I never showed you my face in the maze!" He gasped.

"I'm not scared of you, Monsieur…"

He whimpered as her fingers found the edge of the mask. "That's what you say! That's what you say but then you'll see and —! And —!" He flinched as she lifted the mask away. He clenched his eyes shut, waiting for a scream. Instead, he felt her handkerchief gently mopping his brow and even the snot from around the rim of his nose.

"No, I'm not scared of you…Monsieur Khan — Nadir — told me all about you." She gave a small sigh as she finished wiping the sweat from his face. He dared to peek up at her, finding her eyes were soft, dark and deep as they looked on his bare face without fear.

She gave a dry chuckle and said, "He talked more about you than of Persia, so much so that sometimes, I believed he was bringing me to see you instead of his native country..."

In his weakened state, he couldn't help the small rumble of anger that passed through his heart. _That idiot; there are better, more deserving things to speak of!_

"Sometimes I even felt a bit of jealousy that you occupied so much space in his mind...Ah, well." She gave another sigh through her thin nose as she re-folded her handkerchief. He remembered how spirited Nadir was, how animated with joy when he spoke of "his friend, the ballerina" from Paris. The opera house, the ballet, the music, the people, the city all stayed on the margins of their conversation as the then-mademoiselle did pirouettes and fouettés and grand jetés through all of their late night talks. Seeing her was like seeing that letter for Nadir had also written his name on her heart. Perhaps she felt the same way upon seeing Nadir's former unruly charge running free in the world, perhaps this was her motivation for showing a creature like himself such kindness…

The urge to fade into the stars was passing, being replaced with the need to care for this letter, to protect it and make sure nothing bent or creased or stained it. If Nadir's love was written here, then he would treat it with the same reverence as the paper version. But what could he do for this extraordinary woman? And there was also her child to consider...Surely something would come to him but first — he would show this rude little wound that it was no match for him. He'd knit his flesh together through sheer will power and come out stronger on the other side.

"Monsieur…" Madame Giry must've thought he was dozing off because she had bent low, drawing closer to his wretched face without reservation. "We have a medic on staff. I think I should —"

"You should not."

"But —"

"Doctors complicate things. They'll get nosy, and curious, and want to...examine me," he said. "No doctors."

"So I'll leave you here to die in my office then?" She raised a thin, black eyebrow. "Certainly that sounds ideal."

"It will take far more than this to kill me. I just have to concentrate…and…perhaps...need a little music…"

The orchestra was still playing and he felt the muffled notes weaving through the air like ribbons, almost weighted, as if he could reach out and run his fingers across the staves. He latched onto a plaintive undercurrent of oboe. The instrument was being played rather beautifully and he sunk a little further into the sound and into a restorative sleep, feeling safe in the madame's office and grateful for her inconceivable kindness.


	5. Intermezzo

No doctors, he said. Madame Giry didn't like it but she respected his wishes - for now. Should his condition take a turn for the worse the next day, she would be damned if she would let him die in the back of her office. It seemed like a miracle he was even alive, that he was even in Paris. Nadir had said he planned to help him escape, to be prepared for the possibility that he would turn up at the opera house and now, so many years later, here he was, the only link to she had to Monsieur Khan…

She checked in on him frequently during the day but he seemed to just sleep, suffering from a profound exhaustion. The thought of him there made her noticeably nervous in her work, distracted during her classes, and the girls got sloppy without her constant and keen vigilance. If she had time, she'd have to fit in another practice; it wouldn't do for them to think the ballet mistress was slipping.

Before she left for the evening, she gently tried to wake him, tried to let him know that she was coming back the next day. His golden eyes opened to slits and he mumbled softly something that sounded like an acknowledgement before going to sleep once more but just to be sure, she wrote him a letter with further explanation and left it next to the cot along with some water and bit to eat.

The next day, he looked more or less the same, that is bundled under the blanket and deeply asleep, but the note had been read and the food had been eaten. He was still alive. She tugged down the edge of the blanket to feel his forehead, checking for a fever. When she did so, he chuckled, startling her, and muttered something about trust and that he was already feeling much better. His forehead was cool to the touch, and he did seem better than the previous day, and so she left him to rest once more, popping in from time to time to worry over him.

On the third day, he was gone. She came in extra early, eager to see to the needs of her charge, and gasped to see the cot unoccupied. The blanket was neatly folded and there was a letter written on her own stationery placed on top of it. The writing was scratchy, spidery, and indecipherable. Whether it was a goodbye, a word of thanks, or a promise to return, she couldn't tell.

Furious and frustrated, she threw it onto her desk, chastising herself for feeling so helpless. Nadir had raved about the child-slave's genius and talents but also lamented that there was no controlling him; she had seen this for herself in the maze. This boy - this man - was the only connection she had to Nadir and now he was gone. She hadn't shed a tear for years - they were useless to her, never quite extinguishing her sorrows - but one or two now rolled down her burning face.

The rest of the week passed in a grey fog. She snapped at the managers and worked her dancers harder than before. She had little patience for the patrons parked at the edge of the stage during practice and even rapped the master of the flies' hands when he teased the girls in the wings. She moved through the opera house like a black storm cloud and woe be to anyone who crossed her path!

On the following Monday, this dark mood broke as suddenly as a teacup shattering on the tiles. Upon opening her office door early that morning, she saw a box of her favorite English toffees with a note on top. At first, she thought it was perhaps one of her girls trying to perk her up and win a reprieve from their grueling drills but when she saw the scratchy, illegible writing, her heart leapt to her throat. She whirled around, half expecting to see him perched upon the cot but there was no one there. Yet...the sensation that he had been there or even was there followed her, ran prickles up and down her neck.

She did her best to dispel these feelings but they clung to her all day, especially when she passed by her office door. During the afternoon break, she could no longer avoid the office at the end of the dark hall; there were some notes the costuming department needed and she knew exactly where they were - on the corner of her desk, the desk that had its back to the shadowy corner and the cot. With every step she took towards the door, her unease intensified.

As she crossed the last few feet, a sweet, teasing melody played on a violin wove its way around her, pulling her into a strange embrace.

It's just the music from the orchestra, she chided herself. They're rehearsing just as they always do at this time. This is the only violin you hear, nothing more, nothing less.

But this song was different from whatever was being practiced in the pit. It dug a thousand tiny hooks into her and pulled her along as if she were a puppet under its control. She told herself that she was going to her office of her own free will, and perhaps she had been until the last few strides when she was now completely ensnared by the song.

The music was soothing, comforting, and although it felt warm and soft enough to fall into like a big bed after a long, trying day, she tried to fight against it. Nadir had told her about something like this, a music that could bewitch you - the siren, he called it. She knew it must be this and yet she walked down the hall and through the door as if she was following an unseen track.

Inside the dark office, she pivoted neatly on the ball of her foot as if taking a turn on the stage, pulled up the office key from her chatelaine and locked the door. After that sharp, loud click, she was suddenly released from her invisible bonds. The music, though, continued - a harmless little tune, sweet and innocent in a way that made it seem absurd that just moments before it had seeped deep into her limbs and suspended her free will.

She latched onto the fury that swelled in her heart in an effort to override the fear that struggled for dominance and strode angrily around the corner of the screen. There he was again, sitting with one knobby ankle perched on one bony knee, dressed as sharp as any other young man of Paris, fiddling away as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You!" She tamed the roar within her that threatened to shake the entire opera house down. "You lay here for two days half dead, disappear without a word, and now have the gall to -"

"Disappear?" He paused. "I left you a note, madame."

"Oh, that note…" She rushed to her desk and pulled the note from her drawer, then tossed it on the cot. "This mess was illegible. Why it looks halfway written in Arabic!"

He lowered his violin and plucked the note from the cot, holding it in front of his face and squinting at the jagged black marks.

"Ah," he chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down her spine. "This is what happens when the only person who ever reads your handwriting is yourself!" He produced a small pencil from his coat pocket, hastily scribbled something on the back of the letter, then handed it back to her. It read _Pardonez-mois, madame_ in elegant, flawless handwriting. By the time she looked up from this new note, the violin was once more tucked under his chin and he was producing that innocent, easy tune.

"No wonder! I wrote you that I would come back to visit you during your early morning free period yet you didn't come by at the usual time…"

The fact that he knew her schedule so intimately made her uneasy but she'd be damned if she'd let this brat scare her. She knew how to put him in his place - she had already done so in the maze before and she would do it again if she needed to.

"So," she said, straightening the cuffs of her sleeves. "You seem to be in excellent condition -"

"I told you it was just a minor wound." A strange smile appeared around the side of his mask.

"- and you've brought your instrument."

"I've brought a few other things, too."

"I imagine you're here to audition, just as I suggested."

His golden eyes flicked to her. In the dark of the corner behind the screen, they shimmered in the shadows.

"When I first approached the stage door, perhaps that was my intention. But today, I've come to pay the debt I owe to you, madame."

"Debt? You mean saving your life? That was the least I could do, finding you injured, and -"

" _My_ life?" He laughed, low and unintentionally eerie, a sound that snaked through her spine. "My life is worth less than the cobwebs in the corners of this room. Besides, I myself through my own desires have decided to keep living; I could easily have chosen to expire here in your office. No, what you gifted me was your kindness but more importantly, it was that same kindness you showed to my...my friend. You made a man who suffered so very much so very happy. For that...for giving him some taste of joy in his difficult life...I feel indebted to you, madame."

Madame Giry wasn't sure how she felt about this, that this strange and unpredictable person considered themselves indebted to her. The thought of the capricious djinni of those old stories, a trickster deity that granted wishes according to their own whims, came to mind.

Swallowing fear down a dry throat, she said, "You want to repay me, you say? You should do so by auditioning just as I suggested. Nadir always said you were a genius, that you belonged on the stage here, that the world would adore you if only they could hear your music, see your talents!"

"The world," he said coldly. "Will never adore me." He continued playing, the melody growing thoughtful. "You and that fool both have such dreams...You need to dream about other things besides what to do with this humble creature."

"Don't you dare call Monsieur Khan a fool again."

"What else can you call someone who believes there is a place for me in this world that I do not make for myself? Besides...I have already demonstrated my talents and my genius and adoration is furthest from my audiences' minds. You saw that at the fair, how they shrieked and screamed and fled."

"Your act was designed to get that reaction and you know it. It would be different here at the opera house. You could be a respected member of the orchestra. You could rise in the ranks, you could even one day write your own pieces, you could -"

"They always want to _see_."

The bitterness of his words was unmistakable. His music stumbled, the notes gaining a hard edge until he smoothed them away, the song growing softer again.

"It's only a matter of time before they _see_. They might ask me politely to remove my mask and I might oblige them, hoping they would extend me some courtesy. They might creep up on me and playfully take it, thinking that whatever is underneath my mask certainly can't be that bad. They might try to hold me down and take it away from me, offended that I should choose to keep such a public thing as a face private. No matter what, the hour would come sooner or later when they would see and then...the reaction is always the same. Only Nadir...you and Nadir...have ever treated me...have ever been…"

Emotions stole the words from him and he looked away from her, focusing on his playing. She remembered well how unknowingly cruel her girls had been that day in the garden, how they had surrounded him and tried to take off his mask. Breaking free of their little grasping hands, he ran behind Nadir like a frightened child, trembling like a leaf. The poor thing had never been teased by girls like that before and now, after seeing the reality of his face so closely, she knew he was only trying to protect all of them from their own reactions. The girls just couldn't leave well enough alone...

Her hands bunched at her sides as she took a few breaths, letting the tension dissipate for a moment or so before she asked the truly difficult question that had been stirring in her heart since the moment she laid eyes on this man.

"...How did things end between you anyways?"

He stopped playing and lowered his violin. "It's...not an easy story to tell."

"I want to know."

Those bright, shining eyes fixed to hers, eyes that suddenly seemed to be filled with all of the sorrow of the world. In a few quiet, clipped sentences, he described Nadir's plan, his final request, and the terrible deed itself.

Nadir was a fool, she concluded. An honorable, loving, and idealistic fool.

She turned from those mournful eyes and sank into the chair at her desk. Her fingers ached to take out the letter, to worry over the edges and to scan the unique handwriting, but that was for when she was alone, when she gave herself permission to wonder about and dream of and long for someone who she now knew she would likely never see again. God, it had been over a decade, anyways! What use were her hopes and her desires?

After the winding music had settled their souls a bit, he spoke once more. "When I was first searching for my place in this world, I once found myself in Russia during the winter. This was many years ago, when I was quite young and hadn't hit upon the act that I most recently had. I was fighting for my place still, and moving from country to country without direction. The winters are so cold in there, as you can imagine…" The music changed, grew more complex. "One needs to just wait them out sometimes but when one has no place to call home, one must improvise. You've heard of the Bolshoi, no doubt - your so-called rivals."

She snorted; he gave a nod of approval.

"They do have some lovely pieces but the technique is quite over the top, lacks the refinement of the French classic style. They mounted a production of Giselle many years ago and as far as I'm concerned, there is no Myrtha other than you in my eyes. Your performance at the Persian palace was flawless in every way, but I digress...The music is exquisite, the costuming superb, and the theater very cozy, very welcoming indeed with many nice little nooks and crannies to wait out a winter or two in."

She had a couple of chilling realizations just then, one of what he intended to do and the other that she was powerless to stop him. The opera house was a maze of dark corridors and walkways and basements; it was a perfect home for a creature just like himself. She was in turns terrified and furious.

As if confirming her thoughts, he continued; "The Palais Garnier is just as described — perhaps even better! What a beautiful building, full of trap doors and so many lovely little corners in which to come in out of the cold. There's even that marvelous lake in the foundation! I swam all the way to the other bank and you'd be surprised at how much room is down there…"

The thought of him swimming in the black lake, so thoroughly exploring every secret the opera house held, made her feel as if she had taken the plunge into those icy waters herself.

"So...you intend to hide here, in the cellars, like a rat?"

"Not hide...just...use this opportunity to think about what my next move should be and perhaps take in a little theater." He sighed and said, "I'm tired of being on the road, of being forced to be among others who barely tolerate me, of having to be on display. I just want to...to rest a moment."

"If you think you can hole up in my office, then -"

"Madame, I would never impose on you! Perish the thought," he scoffed. "And I promise I will send you a note if I ever intend to call upon you. Why, you won't even know I'm here!"

At that moment, the doorknob rattled, startling them both. He stopped playing immediately and silently leapt to his feet.

"Mother!" Little Meg turned the doorknob fruitlessly on the other side of the door. "Mother, are you there?"

Madame Giry instinctively looked to her visitor, her heart rate rising at the thought that he would use her daughter, this vulnerability, against her. As soon as her protective instincts rose within her, they dissipated upon seeing him practically quaking at the prospect of being found out by a petite rat. His eyes were wide and locked on the door, his mouth a grim line, and sweat had already begun to seep through his heavily powdered brow. She almost wanted to laugh. She covered the length of the office in a few quick steps and unlocked the door, confident that he would stay out of sight in the dark corner lest a terrifying little ballerina discovered him.

"Yes, Meg? What is it?"

The girl tugged on her mother's sleeve frantically. "Mother, it's awful, simply dreadful! Jammes twisted her ankle when she was coming down the stairs and she swears she tripped on something but there was nothing there! Victoire says it was a diablotin, that Jammes had not touched the horseshoe by the stairs and that -"

Madame Giry cut her off there. "I know the reality that Jammes was probably rushing down the steps in loosely tied slippers is too boring to accept but I'm not in the mood for all this ghost and goblin and pixie nonsense, Meg. I'm sure whatever is hiding in the dark corners of this opera house is more scared of you than you are of it. Let's go see what damage she's done - and if I've got to find a replacement girl for the mid row."

She hurried off, trailing her daughter as she scurried back to the scene of the incident where little Jammes was yowling in misery, surrounded by the other young dancers in a dramatic tableaux, playing the diva over what turned out to be just a little twinge in her ankle.

The door to Madame Giry's office remained closed and the otherworldly sensation it had given her before never returned.


	6. Le Fantome de l'Opera

Taking a deep breath, he strode out from the wings, violin tucked up under his arm, and took to the stage of the Palais Garnier. Dead center, he stopped and looked out over the seats, making a few polite nods to all that had come out to see him tonight. The house was packed, the tickets having sold out weeks beforehand when word of the bright, young prodigy's first Paris concert went 'round. Alright, alright - he certainly wasn't that young anymore and he really didn't know how old he was anyways, but he was deep enough in his cups, having polished off any half-full champagne bottle that had been left lying around after the new year's grande ball, that it didn't bother him as much as usual.

When he first took up residence here at the opera, the end of the year party terrified him. So many people and so much noise! Quite a few amorous pairs wormed their way into his favorite hiding places and so for that first party, he fled to the deepest basement in the pitch black darkness at the edge of the underground lake, praying no one would be brave enough to descend so far and discover him.

The second year he realized that, foolishly, no one cared about a man in a mask at a masquerade. Therefore he screwed up his courage and tentatively set out among the patrons for the first time, his heart pounding so wildly in his chest he knew he must've been visibly shaking with each heartbeat. They brushed past him, sometimes addressing him, but were mostly absorbed with the revelry of the evening. Still, he didn't quite have the momentum to speak to any of them, and his sojourn among the people of Paris was brief yet exhilarating that night.

The next few years were a mix of trial and error, creating costumes that concealed his face quite well without any chance that someone might bump into him and cause his mask to fall or for someone to grab it by chance. No amount of liquor or loud music or bacchanalia could dilute the horror of his true face, and he wasn't keen to be exposed in a room full of people who could quickly turn vicious.

He began to try to make small talk with those that would've been his peers under better circumstances. What a colossal mistake that was! For all of the money in their pockets, for all of the access they had to so many opportunities, they had not an interesting thought in their heads or a clever word in their mouths. Instead they tried to claw over each other, or go around in repetitive circles over hollow victories; they loved to preen and posture, to boast about the most middling successes in a life that was dull and empty under a gilded veneer, squandering the wealth and the lofty positions that had been gifted to them at birth.

He also knew very well that all those rich old bastards took this opportunity to chase after those poor little souls in the chorus or the ballet and many girls, having few better options, wouldn't make it too difficult for these men to catch them. The thought of little Meg growing up to be pawed at by one of these lechers turned his blood to ice. Everything was far too similar to the palace machinations and the proximity to these vacant social climbers made him physically ill.

He hit upon his current new year's routine, which suited him far better, just two years ago and it was this practice that he indulged in tonight. As soon as the last person cleared from the building, he would emerge, knowing that after such a spectacle of untamed revelry no one, not even the cleaners, would be around for hours. He'd drink up whatever was left lying around, prowl all up and down the opera house, and eventually make his way to the stage, the very place that Monsieur Chavret, that dusty, decrepit fuck, had said he would never, ever go.

Of course, there wasn't a single soul occupying any of the chairs in the opera house. The chandelier was dark and the footlights weren't on; it was just him and the solitary ghost light on stage. But in his mind, in a beautiful reverie buoyed on the bubbles from the champagne, he had sold out every seat and every ear in Paris bent to listen to him play his first concert. He made a few gestures to the orchestra, those he had hand picked to accompany him, before he nestled his violin underneath his chin and touched the bow to the strings.

A great gasp went around the hall as he began to play. This performance would be worth every penny for those lucky enough to have secured a ticket. He would prove his talent here tonight and every night for the entire run. All of Paris would burn for him, live and die for him, for his music, for his genius!

It wasn't only his talent that set every tongue in town wagging. In this dream, he wasn't just gifted musically, he was blessed with great beauty as well. He cut an elegant figure on stage, his perfectly tailored white tie and black tails falling on his body at just the right angles, no slack in the skeletal torso, no bony hips and elbows and shoulders protruding.

He was blindingly handsome, unafraid in the least to show his bare face to the world. A full head of dark hair was a must, perhaps the slightest touch of grey just beginning to edge in around his temples to give him a worldly, well-traveled air. And his nose! Why, it was the biggest nose anyone had ever seen! But it didn't detract from his appearance - no, not at all! Long and thin like Madame Giry's with a sharp crook at the top like Nadir's, it gave him a regal, refined bearing. Men would joke that his nose would enter a room several paces before he would. Women would whisper that perhaps the size hinted at other endowments - and some of them would be lucky enough to find out, too!

Women would obviously be completely in his thrall. Young ladies of good breeding would beg him for private music lessons, often trying to get him alone or at least out of earshot of any chaperone. Then they would confess their love for him, their obsession spilling out in a rush of nervous, half-whispered words. Their eyes would swim with tears as they gazed up at him, begging him for the barest hint that he acknowledged their feelings. Friendships would be shattered and rivalries would rise as all the young ladies in town went to war for ownership of his heart.

Why stop at just the young ladies? Their mothers needed attention to! Their dusty old husbands - who loved to trap him in their studies for a snifter of brandy and ponderous hours-long chats - simply didn't ignite their souls the way his music did, the way _he_ did. They would corner him in a hallway after a lesson or in a parlor as he was gathering his coat on his way out and, having more experience than their daughters, plead with him in plain language to indulge them in ways that would shock polite society.

He would have his affairs as he pleased but if he was to be married, he needed a woman who could satisfy him in any and every way. He wanted an equal, someone who needed more from life than a pretty title like baroness or comtesse, who could hold her own in conversation, who wasn't content to just hang off of a man's arm and parrot his opinions. After the day is done, to come home to someone who provided stimulating conversation, selfless adoration, unending desire, was the bulwark against a heartless and cruel world, a way to nourish and sustain the soul.

It wouldn't be a one way street, naturally. He was ready to give his heart fully and completely to any woman who could love him as he loved her. Any woman who could lift his soul in this way, who would consent to marry him, would never want for a single thing in her life. She would never wonder if he was chasing after rats in the opera house or calling up any of his former students or visiting with other ladies as he performed concerts all around the world. Whoever won his love would have him, heart and soul, without question or restraint.

Being a musician — no matter how celebrated — was to be on the fringe of society. He would be new money, without a title or any family connections, and although he would travel in all of the well-to-do circles, he'd never really be a true member of polite society. Whoever he would pledge his heart to had to understand this, had to be comfortable with it. Perhaps she was used to being on the margins of a proper life as well…

His imagination conjured a perfect match for him - a doctor! She came from a family with some money which gave her enough pull to pursue her unconventional passion. She would be the solid, steady intellectual to his wild, creative performer - ideal! They say that opposites attract, after all.

Hmm...Maybe he needed someone who thrived on art and lived and breathed stories and tales just like he did. It might be a better match to find a woman who fed off of the pure exhilaration of raw creation. A doctor would be nice, but what about an author? He could see her now: a quiet type who needed to know someone before she opened up and once she did - what a treasure!

Squeezed into the kitchen in a grand estate to get away from boring relatives or hidden behind a grand piano at a party, once you found her, you could tease her thoughts from her and once she got started, she wouldn't stop. She would hold forth on all topics, would always have something interesting and unusual to contribute to any conversation. She would lean forward, animated at last with all that she had to say, and look up at him through little glasses that were always perched on the end of her nose - how could he not be instantly smitten?

No matter what, he wanted a woman with her own life, who could carve her own path through the world. He had spoken to plenty of empty-headed society girls and they built their lives around all of the incredibly dull men who had everything handed to them and yet took advantage of nothing. Even the silliest petite rat had a dozen more interesting things to say than the dizzy idiots who had come to the opera house to party just a few hours before. Worse were the memories of the sharp girls of the harem who slipped into such sycophantic behavior, molding themselves into the image of pliant playthings, every time the shah visited but then when they were alone, their clever conversation would flow. No, he wanted someone who would challenge him and explore the world with him, form her own opinions and have her own interests and not hold back. It would be wonderful if he and his wife would host salons and their home would be the seat of all that was new in the realms of science, art, music, culture!

Just because she was independent and strong-willed, though, didn't mean he didn't want to be doted on like any other man. He was quite a low maintenance husband, he imagined; a little kiss on the forehead and a kind word in his direction would go far in satisfying him and in return, he would keep her like a queen. He would write a thousand works with her as his muse, would gift her every flower in all of Paris, would pull every star down out of the sky if she so much as hinted that it was her desire. He would make his wife laugh every day of the week and on Sundays, when everyone else was at mass, they'd go for a stroll in the Bois and then swoon away with music all night long.

It would be nice if they did a bit more than just swoon away with music all night long, but dwelling on _those_ sorts of fantasies veered into painful territory for him. It seemed the entire world had a chance to play at love, but he knew deep in his heart there was no possibility for him and yet he was a man, flesh and blood, not a ghost, not a monster, with wants and needs like any other. It was best to just ignore these urges and paper over this part of himself with distractions so before he could dwell on this thought too long he started fiddling louder, his technique suffering for it...

He scanned the seats, the boxes, the mezzanine, the gallery as he played, certain that his future wife would be in attendance the night of his grand debut. She would be there because she had an older brother who insisted she put down her scholarly pursuits or latest novel for a night and come out to live a little. Or! The brother was stood up at the last minute so she decided to take his date's place instead and force him out into the world to nurse his wounded heart.

Whatever the reason, she would be there, silently enraptured by his playing. The brother would notice, would use his pull to get them into the afterparty. They would meet, and thus would commence months of denial between them, that there was any kind of attraction because the feelings were too strong, too immediate.

 _Fate links thee to me, forever and a day…_

When you meet The One you just know — isn't that what they always said? There would be a raw, primal magnetism between them from the moment they laid eyes on each other and they would first fight it because of how terrifying it was to be so vulnerable, to give yourself so completely to someone. It would be so different than any silly dalliance with a pupil or a proper courtship with someone your parents picked out for you, but they were unconventional people and they would have an unconventional romance.

At first, the brother might object - every good story needs a little conflict, after all - but eventually, he would come around and give his blessing. Her parents wouldn't ever truly warm up to him but what else were they do to with their unorthodox daughter? His proposal had to be an enormous production and he'd present his bride with an exquisite ring, perhaps a fat ruby, much like the one he wore on his own hand, to represent the depth of his devotion. Although he wasn't religious, he had already decided they must be wed at La Madeleine in a ceremony that was so ostentatious it would spit in the face of God. He would not be denied love and affection and companionship, would not be cruelty bent and broken by a creator that left him to twist in the streams of humanity's hatred! The Almighty would witness the union of he and his wife in His home and would be forced to accept that he was loved for himself and had a true and pure love of his own, finally.

It was on this thought that he ended his concert. The entire audience leapt to their feet, furiously applauding, the roar of adoration washing over him in waves. From the wings, he imagined Madame Giry was standing there, warm approval seeping into her sharp features. There was talk that she was to earn an enormous accolade for discovering this incredible new talent and bringing him to the Palais Garnier, whispers that perhaps she would be made into the first female manager of the opera house!

Little Meg would be there and he realized that something must be done for her as well...By this time, she would be prima ballerina, he concluded. Yes, and she would get there through her own talent and hard work. Perhaps she had a monied patron who was kind to her, one of those fellows who prefered other men and wanted an in with the actors and dancers. Meg would oblige him, playing matchmaker with those she knew were of the same persuasion, and she and her patron would have a pleasant and friendly relationship.

Aha! Another idea swam up through his champagne-addled brain. What if the older brother met with little Meg at the afterparty? She could marry well into a family that had good money and didn't stifle her artistic urges. How proud, how satisfied would Madame be to see her two charges do so well! This, he concluded, was consummate happy ending they deserved and he felt very self-satisfied wrapping up his reverie with a neat little ribbon.

The crowd that was still on their feet, still clapping and screaming and clamoring for him, but he wouldn't bow to them. How he loathed them! He didn't give a one single fuck for all of those well-to-do idiots and they didn't deserve his acknowledgment. They wanted to extract art and beauty from him, to use him to prop themselves up as empty intellectuals? He would harvest them for every penny - and they would be grateful for it!

No, the one person he would acknowledge would be watching with those other dumb fucks, new managers Messrs. Poligny and LeFevre, from their private seats in box five. Nadir would be there, gazing down at him with tears in his eyes, overcome with pride. He wasn't ever sure how exactly Nadir fit into his dreams - Was he a friend? Was he just visiting the opera house? Were they related? - But it was important that he be there, healthy and whole and most importantly, happy.

He turned on his heel towards box five, his hand raised above his head ready to execute an exaggerated bow, and stopped dead. There in the box seats - his tie askew, confetti in his unkempt hair, dried vomit at the corner of his mouth - was Poligny. The man must've fallen down dead drunk up there and was forgotten when the revelry moved on. Now the grand asshole had caught him out center stage, bare-faced, vulnerable and stranded in the ghost light, swimming in champagne and terror.

 _Fuck._

From the look on Poligny's face, the fool was just as scared as he was. Unable to think of what to do in the moment, he completed his bow in an effort to buy time to consider his next move. There was a trap door around here somewhere, wasn't there?

As he came up, he caught Poligny's eyes once more. The man was utterly terrified, mouth gaping and bug-eyed, having witnessed what could only be a true denizen of the depths of Hell performing on his very own stage. And so, in an effort to save himself by riding on the other man's fear, he did the most terrifying thing he could think of: he smiled.

"Good evening, Monsieur!" He called out, causing Poligny to jump. "You're very fortunate indeed to have attended my concert on the stage of the Palais Garnier."

"What the devil are you?!" Poligny yelped, his voice tremulous with fear and outrage.

 _What. Not who. What._

Well.

If he wanted him to be a "what" then perhaps he would take this opportunity to transfigure himself completely into the "what" he had been tagged as by the little ballerinas or scene shifters or patrons that laid eyes on him in the dark corners of the opera house.

"You don't recognize me, Monsieur?"

"Should I?"

"It's me —" he smiled. "Le Fantome de l'Opera!"

Now that he said it out loud, he felt a river of madness rush through his veins and he couldn't hold back a loud, cackling laugh that echoed all around the empty stage, bouncing around the hall, flitting up inside of box five. Poligny shrank back, hands clenched on the edge of the railing, white knuckles standing out against the dark wood and rich velvet. The undercurrent of his own fear, the rush of power, the shame of being caught without his mask, the effects of the alcohol all combined into a potent soup that made his head spin. When he was too angry, too nervous, too frightened, and apparently too drunk, he lost the power of his voice. He could hardly concentrate, was losing control of his most powerful faculties, and so he began playing once more to recenter himself.

"You...you aren't real…!" Poligny finally gathered up the courage to squeak out a reply. "You're a product of - of - the drink! Yes! Someone's slipped me some- some - some absinthe and I'll wake up soon and you'll be gone!"

"Monsieur, I assure you that I am very real. If you don't believe me, I invite you to come down here and find out for yourself! Doubting Thomas, after all, had the courage to thrust his fist in Jesus' wound; surely you can shake my hand."

"What do you want?" The man was shaking, tears catching in the crinkles around his eyes. What _did_ he want? He never had considered it before…The things he really wanted — love, acceptance — were far beyond him, he surmised. Perhaps he could still squeeze old Poligny and get some fun out of him.

After fiddling for a few moments, deep in thought, he said, "As your resident opera ghost, I've had the displeasure of watching you run this fine facility into the ground -"

" _Excuse me -_ "

" - and I have several suggestions that will bring proper glory to the music, the theater, the arts."

"I refuse to take orders from a - a -!"

Say it! He stared the man down, daring him to give voice to just what exactly he thought he was. The rush of pinning someone like this was intoxicating and he wondered if he had the courage do this sober.

"If you don't heed my excellent advice, I could make things difficult for you…" Oh, the thrill of power was too great a temptation to hold him back and he felt those black feelings, those dark desires that he hadn't indulged in since those rosy hours long ago creep in around his bones.

"I'm not scared of you rattling doors and scurrying around the back of house!" Poligny said, quaking in the safety of the box seat.

"I can do far more than rattle doors. I can tell LeFevre all about what you and his wife have been getting up to…"

Poligny's mouth flapped open and closed like a cod adjusting to life on land. "I never -! He wouldn't -!"

"I know other things, too...There's really nowhere to hide from my eyes in the opera house. Now, as we were discussing -"

"Who would believe a creature like you -! You're bluffing -! You're mad!"

"I could also tell LeFevre about what you and his daughter have been getting up to, as well. I imagine her husband wouldn't be best pleased, either." Poligny sank into his seat, deflated and defeated. "You know, if you listen to my advice, you'll turn a good profit, I assure you. And speaking of profit, it's only right that I should collect a fee for essentially operating as a third manager..." Oh, he was certainly on a roll tonight! Whatever unraveled muse had struck him had truly let the wheels come off of his sanity! Whether or not these wild ideas would be still be standing by the light of a sobered dawn was another question…

"A fee?!" Poligny slumped further down, his eyes growing wider.

"I won't ask for much...I'll give you a firm figure after you implement the changes I suggest."

There was a moment of stillness where the notes he played hung suspended between them. And then Poligny smacked his hands down on the bannister, stood up, and with a face red with fury and alcohol shouted, "You are unreal! Unreal in every sense of the word! You're no more substantial than a — a — collection of cobwebs!"

"Come down and shake my hand, monsieur! If I'm no more than your dream, then I'll fall away at your touch but if not, our contract is sealed!"

"Goddammit, I will! I'm not afraid of you, I'm not, I'm not!" Poligny's voice spiraled high and tense as he marched out the back of the box. Upon seeing the old fuck was serious about coming to confront him, glee shot up from his gut and sparked stars within his brain. With a chuckle he slipped into the shadows on the side of the stage, waiting for the final act.

Poligny, muttering to himself, half outraged and half to give himself courage, strode from the back of house onto the stage. He stopped dead in front of the ghost light, decisively stomping his foot.

"No ghost! No contract! Nonsense! What am I? One of this ballet brats, having delusions about some phantom creeping around the opera hou—"

Before Poligny could finish his monologue, he rushed into the stage, silently so that the old man didn't hear his approach, reached around and grabbed him by the lapel, pulling the frightened bastard right up into his bare face. The old man's jaw went slack, his cheeks went white, his eyes went wide confronted with this hideous specter up close. He had to act quickly; the best magic tricks didn't linger, only left the audience wanting more.

"I'm so glad to see you've accepted my offer!" He grabbed the manager's hand, clamping down with his cold, bony fingers and giving it a vigorous shake. "Once you see how well the company does, you'll be glad for our partnership!"

Still leading him by the lapel and using the gathered momentum, he gave him a quick spin, ensuring the old man stumbled and fell on his ass, eyes still glued to the unholy apparition before him.

"And I shall be requiring box five for my personal use!" After making this last demand, he slipped through a beloved trap door, laughing and laughing and laughing all the way down into the black depths of the opera house, the image of Poligny's terrified face igniting a terrible, unmanageable glee.


	7. The Ghost

_You won't even know I'm here._

Those words would never be far from her mind in the intervening years. He said he would only stay a little while but he installed himself so neatly into the opera house, it seemed he was loathe to leave, to either move forwards or backwards, content to creep along in the darkness. How he did so and where he stayed remained mysteries to her and he spoke in maddening riddles if she ever dared to ask him.

He did have a few run ins with a patron or two backstage, with the master of the flies on the stairwell by the footlights, and even with the girls, which set them into another superstitious frenzy — _a ghost, a ghost!_ they'd cry for they had no explanation for the mysterious figure with glowing eyes who passed like a shadow and disappeared when you followed it. A ghost? More like a grown man acting like a naughty boy, scaring ballerinas!

There truly was a ghost at the opera populaire, though; his name was Nadir Khan and he came out to haunt them in the low, dark hours of the night when everyone had gone home, when Meg went to stay with one of her little friends, when it was just her and the boy and more often than not, a few bottles of cassis or wine that he had pilfered from God knows where. Perched on the cot, half hidden in kind shadows, he would fiddle a soothing song while she finished organizing her papers and thoughts. Often times he would remove his mask so he could drink and talk freely with her in those waning hours. In the flickering candlelight, in their whispered memories, the ghost would walk again.

He painted a picture of all that Nadir was outside of her knowledge of him. A caretaker, a minder, a chaperone, a jailer, a mere mortal tasked with chaining and taming a reckless demon of a child. "The Great Booby", he called him with mock pomp and false reverence as if it were his formal title. There were myriad other nicknames he used as he told stories of pranks he pulled on the hapless daroga of the Mazandaran — like the time he painted ink on the poor man's face after he fell asleep trying to keep late hours with the boy in the royal library — but this was the one insult he came back to over and over again like the chorus in a familiar song. He used it as a barb to deflect the many other truths of their time together, those memories that were much too painful to put into words.

She knew the sting of certain recollections, pushed them to the edge of their talks, and instead filled in the gaps of Nadir's time in Paris for him. She kept the conversation light, told him how Nadir marveled at the architecture and the sets alike, easily made friends with the actors and musicians, wooed the managers and the patrons with his gentle yet quick-witted spirit, and especially how passionate he was about the music, the dancing, the acting, the arts.

As the candle burned lower, the dark crept in and she could feel the ghost hovering there, pressing in on them, wanting her to speak the words in her heart to make him a whole person. They were too painful to say, always caught in her throat like a mouthful of glass. Why should she tell these things to this boy, inflict new wounds on him? What would she even say?

There was no point in telling him of the first time she laid eyes on Nadir. He was being escorted around the opera house by the former manager Chavret, and he always made it a point to bring men of prominence and wealth to the rehearsal room to show off their pretty little dancers. She wasn't a pretty little dancer anymore, having been turned out by a patron she staked her life and her heart on. In her thirties and too old to be on stage by their uneducated estimation, they shoehorned her into the opera house as an immense favor. They graciously allowed her to be the apprentice to the current ballet mistress, a woman who was half-blind and gnarled with age yet had an uncanny feel for the way the girls moved across the floorboards, pounding her cane on the wood when they broke formation.

She was still reeling from having to reshape herself, still loathed even the debt she owed to the management to allow her to come back home to the opera house, hated the gratitude she tried to cultivate. When she first laid eyes on him, that loathing she had tried to suppress shot up from her heart into the back of her throat. She hated him on sight and without hesitation, the way his well-made clothes always seemed slightly rumpled, and how his hair had gone white right down the middle like a skunk, and the way he wore his pince-nez perilously perched on his crooked nose. She especially despised how he asked the dancers about their favorite roles and then had the nerve to listen to them intently without his sparkling green eyes wandering up and down their bodies as they spoke. It disgusted her to hear him charmingly fumble through French and made her burn with rage when she physically ran into him being nosy and poking around backstage, examining the sets which he then had the gall to comment on the craftsmanship.

She hated the whispered slurs the superstitious girls passed amongst each other. She hated how the managers saw him as an sack of royal cash on legs. She especially hated hearing the men talk about all that they did with him out on the town, the cafes and bars where they chatted up pretty young girls, their tour of the brothels when the bars closed down.

Above all, she hated that her heart had betrayed her, made her vulnerable with a ridiculous, useless yearning. She and her heart had an understanding, she thought, which is why she couldn't comprehend why it kept pulling her towards this man. She struggled in vain to throw cold water over any fantasy that dared to cross her mind and yet they were persistent, flitting behind her eyes as she lay in bed at night, whispering in her ear if she didn't see him at the opera for a few days.

Her paper-thin denial tore to shreds one afternoon beneath the opera house. As a joke, the managers had sent her to escort Monsieur Khan to the black lake. He had heard rumors of it, wanted to see it, and the managers pulled her out of her afternoon class to tend to this ridiculous request. They knew she hated the dark, hated the rats, and they thought she hated all men, especially Monsieur Khan, due to her icy cold demeanor towards him. She mostly hated fools who wasted her time and she held onto the tight anger in the pit of her stomach to keep her from feeling fear as she and Monsieur Khan descended the five levels down to the bridge over the black lake.

"There it is. Are you satisfied?" She asked, holding the lantern over the railing so he could see the smooth, glassy water extending infinitely into the darkness.

"Remarkable!" He said, peering over so far she thought that his pince-nez would go tumbling down to the lake. "And what's beyond the lake? Are there concrete shores or banks? Is there storage for the opera?"

"Monsieur," she said, keeping her words tight yet polite. "I've heard all manner of things are out there, that it was used as a communard hide out during the war, that they toss old sets and props around in the forgotten corridors, that there are hidden passageways that lead to the ossuaries. There are banks but they're very narrow, and close to the walls, so narrow that even the best ballerina would struggle to keep her balance. Perhaps only a cat could walk the entire perimeter. My guess is that there's nothing down here, just dirt, water, and concrete - and people's fantasies and ghost stories."

As she was giving her opinion, she felt as if something brushed across the hem of her skirt but she ignored it. No doubt it was just her imagination anyways and it wouldn't do to start jumping at phantom sensations when she was talking about the banality of the so-called mysterious black lake. It happened again, and when she felt four little scrabbling feet clamber over her boot, she remembered what else was down here — rats and, with them, the rat catcher.

As if on cue, that dreadful entity came around from the other side of the bridge. His lantern was held up at his face so that he appeared as only a head of fire and before him, accompanied by the sounds of little claws running and scraping and scratching all around .

"Let me pass! Let me pass with my rats!"

The creatures flooded the narrow bridge and, unable to help herself, she shrieked and leapt into Monsieur Khan's arms. The wave of rats scurried on, the rat catcher right behind, yet she remained plastered to Monsieur Khan, face buried in his neck, arms squeezed tight around him for far longer than appropriate, trembling like one of her superstitious young students.

As the burn of the adrenaline wore off, it was replaced by the flames of utter humiliation lapping at every nerve. How absurd she was! Slowly, she pulled back, knowing her own face must be burning in the dark like the rat catcher's. The whole thing was so utterly humiliating, she considered throwing herself into the black lake and letting the waters soak into her skirts and drag her down.

And then — he giggled.

A moment before, she was afraid to meet his gaze but now her eyes snapped to his. Did she really just hear -?

Under her scrutiny, still held fast in her arms, he dissolved into another nervous giggle fit. It was so vulnerable, so ridiculous and so adorable; her heart surrendered and gave up the war against him.

They spent more time in each other's arms from then on and it was in her arms, sobbing, that the last seal of silence was broken allowing the truth of his life to spill forth, a truth she could never imagine a man as kind and careful as Nadir was capable of. He held her fast, spoke quickly, whispering desperately as his burning tears tracked down her bare skin. He told her all of the things that the boy wouldn't, spoke of the child's suffering, the boy's education, the performances, the cruelties. Nadir spoke of the struggle for the boy's heart and mind, the torment of wondering if the boy was better off in chains. He lauded the boy as an untapped genius, he feared the unexplored depths of his deviancy, and, always, he believed. Nadir believed she was still a dancer, he believed he was still capable of love, and he believed in the boy.

The boy never breathed a word of all that he had done and had been, only talked around it, kept Nadir and his past at the edges of the firelight. She found herself picking up where Nadir had left off, fretting over his unrealized potential yet relieved that he felt safe, was comfortable confined to one place. Nadir said the boy was sweet and gentle when given space to be and he demonstrated it with every box of English candies or little bouquet of flowers he left for her in her office or by returning "little Meg's" glove when she carelessly dropped it in a corridor on her rush to leave class. Kind, gentle, amusing, talented, always.

As for genius, there were such flashes of brilliance she wished he would shake his melancholy and take control of his destiny, certain he would be the world's foremost composer. Other times, he was so hopeless she wondered who had helped him get dressed that morning.

 _You won't even know I'm here._

One crisp mid-January morning it all changed.


	8. OG

The opera house was coming back to life after going dormant following their grand masquerade ball. The workers were slow to start, the cold had seeped into the very foundation, and the previous evening's performance had been lackluster to say the least. She wasn't surprised to see the girls huddled around the little stove in the corner of the room, gossiping, but it was their somber faces and the topic of discussion that caught her off guard.

Meg turned her tear-bright eyes to her and said, "Mother, Poligny has been weeping in his office all morning. He's inconsolable! Do you think — we can't be —-?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if we closed down if we give another performance like last night's," Madame bit out. "You think the patrons didn't catch that stumble at the end of the second village scene? Be assured they did. Such lazy technique!"

She was curious about the source of Poligny's tears but it would do no good to encourage speculation among these gossipy girls. Last night's performance had been abysmal and not just due to sloppy placement or off notes; the whole thing was marred by a seemingly endless - and endlessly absurd - string of technical difficulties.

She pushed thoughts of managerial problems away by assuring herself it was most likely about something said in the drunken hours of their masquerade revelry that he and the other manager, LeFevre, were working out. God knew they had their silly entanglements.

The sobbing, tears, and shouting didn't stop over the following week - nor did the incessant issues with wardrobe, wigs, sets, props, instruments, etcetera. What's worse - the patrons were starting to complain about murmuring, whispering, laughing in box five, the best seat in the house, the box the managers sat their most distinguished guests and patrons.

When asked about such things during their talks, Madame's little headache only giggled and said, with mock innocence and terror, that it must be the opera ghost.

Poligny's sobbing, LeFevre's shouting, and the opera house's troubles came to a temporary end that one January morning. On wobbling legs, with dark circles under their eyes, the managers visited her class unannounced. They waited until Madame's girls finished their petite allégro before addressing them.

"As you know, our year hasn't had the best start." LeFevre was in the best shape of the two; his voice still firm and determined. "We've made…There's been a decision to make a few changes."

Madame's arms crossed and her brow arched of their own accord as she waited to hear what nonsense they had cooked up between them.

"Madame Giry...We've reconsidered the changes you submitted to us from early last year regarding the...the promotions you suggested. Mademoiselle Sorrelli is an excellent choice for our next new prima ballerina."

A ripple of surprise went through the girls with Sorrelli standing in the center of it all, as shocked as the rest. The rats all knew she had the skills to develop into a true prima yet the promotion never came. There were whispers regarding the patrons' —and managers' — infatuation with the lithe yet lifeless blonde who occupied the top spot in the company, unkind comments about Sorrelli's powerful build, derision for her unusual superstitions and beliefs; these things were all bandied about as reasons for her career's stall. From the look on her face, it was clear she didn't even know Madame Giry had made the suggestion.

Madame's lips curled into a half smile, half smirk. "I'm pleased that my very wise managers have finally realized their talents lie in the administrative office and not the arts…"

"Yes, Madame, well…" LeFevre continued, ignoring the whistling sigh Poligny gave through is nose. "We have another promotion to announce. Msr. Reyer?"

The young man at the piano in the corner of the room stood up. "Sir?"

"Come with us. We have some changes to speak to you about…"

Msr. Reyer exchanged a glance with Madame.

"Not my accompanist!" she exclaimed.

"Director Gabriel is out - Msr. Reyer is taking his place. We'll send someone up from the orchestra to replace him in just a moment. That is all."

The managers strode from the room, pausing for Msr. Reyer to catch up. He straightened his sleeves, gave Madame a sheepish look, and followed them out the door.

He wasn't gone more than five seconds before the girls erupted into fresh whispers. They despised Msr. Reyer because he was all business, notoriously immune to their flirtations, and sometimes as strict as Madame, but they couldn't decide if they were finally rid of him or if he was to evolve into another level of tyrant. Madame rapped her cane on the floor to silence them but she wasn't able to silence her own budding sense of unease.

There were growing pains as the opera house rearranged itself to fit more new and mysterious demands, but the managers were insistent even as they seemingly withered away before their eyes. With even more weeping and wailing behind closed doors, they mercifully closed everything down for a day as a way to grant their employees a brief adjustment period.

After their recent wretched performances, Madame didn't expect to open again to much fanfare but she should've known better. The brief, one day closure had piqued the audience's interest and they flooded back, crushed in the foyer shoulder to shoulder. She caught snatches of their gossip, their laughter, as they mocked the opera house, coming only to gawk at the fall of this once-proud temple to the arts. From time to time, she caught hold of a strange thread of discussion among the crowd, whispers of anonymous notes sent to the _Revue Theatrale_ excoriating the management, ridiculing the performances, and fanning the flames that the opera was coming apart at the seams. From her position in the wings, she still heard a few titters and giggles at the start of the show.

By intermission, the laughter had stopped. All previous mockery was transformed to admiration, the audience burst into applause, cheering without hesitation. The changes worked! The music was tight, infused with feeling; Sorrelli had been a dream, taking the low expectations of the crowd and turning them inside out. There were no more accidents or mishaps with the sets, props, wardrobe.

The weeping, however, continued.

The next day, Madame passed by the managers' office to congratulate them on the success of the night before but the scene inside was not one of celebration. Poligny was the worst she'd ever seen him - dark circles, tears half-dried on sunken cheeks, lines etched into his brow, comb-over askew. The man looked as if he had been tossed onto his desk as he was leaning deeply into twisted arms, barely seated on the edge of his chair. LeFevre was standing, pacing back and forth, his collar straining to stay closed over a neck bulging with anger and indignity, his face bright red.

"Gentlemen…" Madame carefully crossed the threshold. "I thought to stop by to celebrate what seemed like a triumph...was I wrong?"

"No," LeFevre growled through gritted teeth. "We had a record take at the box office - twenty thousand francs."

Poligny wailed and buried his face in his arms.

"I'm not sure I understand your tears…" Madame said.

"Extortion!" LeFevre slapped his hands down on his desk. The word hung in the silent air between them until Poligny hiccuped a few times and began to weep once more.

"Madame Giry, as you are a serious woman with a personal investment in the opera's success and a devotion to a long and fruitful career, I will tell you the truth of the matter." LeFevre motioned her to shut the door and come closer. She did so, the feeling of unease awakening within her. LeFevre continued, "Someone has been trying to blackmail us, extort money from us. They've been sabotaging our productions, demanding changes and said...they said if we had a success after these changes, we are to give them the entire take from the first night as their salary."

Poligny whimpered from his desk.

"A salary of twenty thousand francs!" Madame scoffed.

"Yes - and the use of box five, as they consider themselves to be as good as a manager of the opera populaire! But wait — here's the best part: our blackmailer claims to be the one and only opera ghost!"

Madame's sense of unease had wound its way around her insides and comfortably settled in.

Poligny moaned. "I've seen him."

"You've seen the opera ghost?" Madame turned to Poligny who looked up at her from the tangle of his arms with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

"Don't encourage him," LeFevre waved his hand dismissively.

Poligny continued, his voice trembling like that of a man haunted. "His eyes...yellow, burning...A death's head...a black hole of a nose...rotting flesh clinging to a - a - skull...Played violin like the devil himself...music...too beautiful, painfully beautiful...A voice...his voice...its voice...went inside of my head...inside of my mind...I shook his hand...ice cold...a dead man's hand...all bones...I'm sorry...it was me, I shook his hand…" After this halting confession, Poligny buried his face within his arms once more.

LeFevre snorted. "Put him in a tutu and he's ready to join the silly superstitious rats in the corps du ballet - no offense, Madame."

"None taken," Madame answered, turning back to LeFevre. "So...what do you plan to do? How did the ghost ask you to pay his salary?"

"The ghost asked us to send the twenty thousand francs by return of post, if you can believe it. Regardless, we won't pay. We don't respond to extortion. This is all obviously the absurd work of someone within the company and I will catch them out, mark my words!"

Poligny sobbed.

"They won't pay the opera ghost?"

"They won't pay _you_ ," Madame Giry scowled at her mischievous charge as the two sat in her darkened office for their after hours talk. "Why bother playing these tricks? It's almost pathetic, rattling around behind the scenes. You could've risen through the ranks, been a manager on your own talents. These things..." She made a slight nod towards the mask. "These things don't matter the way you think they do. This isn't Persia, people don't -"

"If I am the opera ghost, it's because others have made me so! Your rats - your own little Meg - gave me that name, wrapped me in their stories. Besides, the opera ghost did honest work, didn't he? The productions are so much better under dear OG's guidance, aren't they? The managers...they now listen to what Madame has to say, don't they?"

She snorted. "For the moment. And just what, exactly, did you intend to do with twenty thousand francs?"

"Exactly as I please," he answered, tucking his violin under his chin once more and resuming the little tune he was working on. "How disappointing, they won't pay. How sad, how dreadful…"

And then he laughed - low and quiet, all to himself - a sound that never failed to set her nerves on edge.

Once more, the opera was overturned, this time with the full strength of the opera ghost's vengeance. The entire orchestra's seats collapsed in the middle of the second act, as if each screw and nail had been yanked out by invisible strings. Animals from the opera menagerie began popping up through the trap doors with many a scene ruined by a startled sheep appearing from thin air and scrambling across the stage. Whole props and costumes went missing, strange shadows were seemingly projected onto backdrops during performances, and the audience reported hearing odd, disembodied voices, eerie laughter echoing around the hall.

"OG" did try just once to interfere with the corps de ballet, but only once. Madame's chatelaine became suddenly useless close to final rehearsal; her keys mysteriously stopped working in the lock for the room where all of the dancers' slippers were kept. Her key nor the stage master's skeleton key nor the managers' master keys would turn in the lock and the entire ordeal depleted the last shred of Madame's patience for OG and his pranks.

"If the opera ghost knows what's best for him," she snarled, with a quiet anger that sent the rats huddling in each others' arms, "this door will open - _now_."

After a silent second where it seemed that the door itself was thinking, it finally creaked open. Apologies appeared on Madame's desk later that week - a gaudy, overstuffed bouquet of flowers with perfume so powerful it made her eyes water and a bounty of sweets from the best shop in town. She gave them all away to her girls, saying they were from an anonymous patron who was particularly pleased with their recent improvement and hard work. OG never played another prank on Madame.

By the end of the week, she was certain the managers had been broken. She saw them scuttling across the foyer, an enveloped stuffed with francs safety pinned to Poligny's pocket, walking back to back and mumbling to themselves like madmen. Still, the show went on as usual and they remained undeterred until the end of the first act on Saturday night.

Madame was minding her girls from the wings, making notes when a jump was made offbeat or when the line of a leg wasn't strong enough, when she noticed Poligny and LeFevre in their usual seats in box five, directly across from where she was standing. Their eyes were pointed down at the stage yet they seemed to stare right through the boards. Both of their faces were completely white, bloodless, and Madame swore she could see a sheen of sweat across each man's taught forehead. Behind them, two stars shone in the dark shadows of the back of the box. Poligny gripped the ledge in front of him, his arms stick straight and locked in place, perhaps the only thing keeping him upright. LeFevre, though, had a flicker of bravery cross his terrified features.

He turned slowly and glanced over his shoulder. The two lights jerked to stare him straight in the face and meet his gaze. Madame's ever-present unease blossomed into a sudden panic. She picked up her skirts and sprinted around the back of the stage, down the corridors, and up the stairs leading to box five.

By the time she made it to the box, both managers were standing outside the door in the hallway looking as if they'd had all of the spirit sucked out of them, resigned, haunted.

"Gentlemen...I...I thought I saw…." Madame, unsure of what exactly to say, felt her words trickle away.

"This box is reserved from now on, Madame Giry," LeFevre said, adjusting his sleeves. "That's all."

Madame paused for a moment, then turned and opened the door. The managers leapt at her, warnings and admonitions frantically tumbling from their mouths. Ignoring them, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

The box was dark, cool, and perfectly empty. The two chairs the managers were sitting in were by the railing, a bit askew from their haste in exiting. A third chair was behind the two by the railings, sitting further back in the shadows. The pegs for the coats were empty. The box was silent. Below, halfway through intermission, the patrons were talking and mingling. To her eyes, nothing was amiss.

She turned from the rail, wondering if she had truly seen those shining eyes in the dark behind the managers and then there they were, between her and the door. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. The opera ghost suddenly appeared before her, dressed in the uniform of the well-to-do, gloves, top hat, and cloak included.

" _Good evening, Madame,_ " he said. " _There won't be any further issues with my box; the other managers and I have come to an agreement._ "

How he appeared before her so suddenly, she couldn't say, but Nadir's description of the holes and tunnels and trap doors he bored into the walls of the Persian palace ran through her mind. In the shadows, the white mask blended seamlessly with his pale skin creating the illusion of a whole face, yet only one side was smiling.

* * *

 _Thanks to everyone who keeps reading and following along. I'm sorry for the delay in new chapters; having three jobs (and jury duty too) isn't conducive to having free time. I really appreciate all my readers and I promise I'm committed to seeing the story through 3_


	9. The House On The Lake

Installing himself as acting manager wasn't the end, Madame soon discovered. And as for the princely sum of 20,000 francs a month, the managers paid it in full on the first of every month. Madame was present a few times when they would place a crisp, new envelope, practically bursting at the seams with the cash, marked for "O.G." with the opera house's address, into the pile of outgoing mail. The envelope never lasted long in their mailbox and was usually gone within a few moments. The managers would quake with fear when it was time to pay the ghost and sigh in relief the instance the envelope was gone and the supernatural entity was placated for another month. Madame felt no such terror, yet she never could ascertain how the "opera ghost" managed to spirit such things away beneath their very noses. She could only imagine that someone who had infinite time on their hands and entertained themselves by pulling pranks on both little ballerinas and old men would surely devise a way. As this went on for years, she didn't doubt he had the time to perfect his technique.

As far as what was done with the obscene amount of money, she caught her first glimpse of where it was all going one late night in the costume department. The Swanhilda costume wasn't quite sitting right on Sorrelli and Madame made a trip to wardrobe after hours to peruse more fabric options. She knew she was cutting it close to the performance but perfection was possible with persistence.

As she thumbed a swatch of light green fabric and considered how it would play against a lilac bodice, she was startled by the sound of a rude, throaty cough. Not much scared Madame these days and yet she practically leapt out of her boots. Clutching her hand over her foolish, hammering heart, she peered around the racks, searching for the source of the sound.

At the far end of the sewing room, tucked away in her messy and dark little corner, Mme. Voclain was hand embroidering a costume. She was a rough woman who didn't care one bit for the glamour and splendor of the opera yet she had a delicate touch, adding elegant and precise details that stood up to the rigors of performance. She was diligent, kept her head down, and focused only on her tasks...and that diligence caused her to work slow and keep long hours which led to her being let go a month before when Msr. LeFevre was on a penny-pinching spree.

"Mme. Voclain..." Madame picked her way through costumes and clutter to the claustrophobic workspace.

"Giry! Should've known only you would be down here at this hour, picking at the frocks. Did you need something?" Mme. Voclain gave her half a glance over her shoulder before refocusing on her work.

"I was just...well, just considering a little change. I thought I was alone and you gave me a little fright…"

"Give _you_ a fright…" Mme. Voclain chuckled through her teeth, snapping the end of a fresh length of thread with them. "Imagine!"

"I must confess, I'm glad to see you. I didn't know you were back…"

"Oh, no grand thing about it. I suppose a few weeks after I was let go, those two idiots changed their minds, sent me a letter asking me back. Queer letter, red ink, unsigned...I thought it was a joke but they kept coming and coming, until they were almost coming once a day. Who has the time to write so many letters, I asked myself."

Madame nodded, her lips a tight line.

"So I come back with one of their letters in hand, I tell them it's not funny, harrassing me and sending me these letters every day, asking them what they wanted from me. I guess they meant it because they let me take up my old place. I even got a nice raise, if you can believe it - but that's between me and you, don't let the other girls catch wind." She looked over her shoulder at Madame and gave her a cheeky wink. With a sigh, she resettled in her chair, digging her needle back into her work. "I won't lie, although I was sore about being let go, it's been a blessing to be back so I can't hold on to hard feelings...After Marcel went - God rest his soul - with the three ones at home...I'm lucky Sophie is old enough now to help with the other two, but you can imagine how things were."

Madame watched as Mme. Voclain's needle swam in and out, in and out of the rich black velvet between her fingers, dipping into a pool of jet beads and affixing them to the fabric.

"What's that you're working on?" Madame asked, peering closely. "What production is it for?"

Mme. Voclain only shrugged. "Who knows and who cares? It's _your_ job to keep track of all of the characters roaming about the stage; I just do whatever work is assigned to me and collect my pay."

Madame knew that the outrageous sum her charge had managed to wheedle out of the two fools that ran the theater was too great to manifest itself as only a seamstress' salary. All of the fine flowers that appeared in her office on opening nights, the boxes of English toffee, the cab fare when the temperatures dropped low couldn't begin to drain those finances. At times, she had to turn away a few gifts — a darling embroidered muff with fashionable pockets for Meg, an exquisitely beaded reticule for herself — so that she didn't attract even more suspicion than she already did for being the one figure in the opera house the ghost never bothered. She suspected the increasing array of finery that crept into his wardrobe - the tasteful yet substantial dark gems on his cuffs, the cashmere scarf that hung from his shoulders - could begin to put a dent in it but that couldn't be all. Foolishly, she dared to hope he had found himself a flat, that he was living like a human being again within four walls, with running water, with a bed to call his own instead of creeping about the opera house.

Ah, how mistaken she was. She could practically see Nadir shaking his head at her foolishness.

That flicker of hope was extinguished in the depths of a few strange, dark hours.

Just as the invitation said, there was a small, gated door off of the Rue Scribe side of the opera house - although it was so narrow and small calling it a door was an embellishment. She drew a small envelope from her sleeve. Inside was a shining new key and the invitation that spurred her to come to this cramped and forgotten corner alley reading "come after dark, come alone". The key slotted easily enough into the dented, weathered lock and, gathering up her skirts and ducking her head, she passed through the gate into the darkness beyond.

A few steps past this threshold, the limited light from above was swallowed into an unforgiving blackness. She stood at the boundary between the grey, dim twilight glow of above and the stark opaque beyond, refusing to go any further. Bristling, she thought to herself that it was quite rude to ask one to go into such foreboding territory, let alone a single woman. She didn't have the chance to continue working over these thoughts; a warm light appeared from below and with it, two shining eyes.

Her charge stood before her in one of his impeccable suits, a cloak across his shoulders and a hat slanted low over his eyes, his figure illuminated by a lantern he held above his head.

"Good evening, Madame. Thank you for joining me."

A curious smile played on his lips and she felt her stomach clench in apprehension.

"Good evening yourself," Her hands unconsciously wrung the edge of her bodice. "Do you really expect me to go down there? You know my knee isn't what it used to be, especially in the cold and the damp..."

He glanced down into the abyss, and then back at her, struggling to suppress his strange smile. "Madame, I want to share something wonderful with you and I promise it's worth going just a little further. Are you scared of the uneven path? Give me your hand, I'll guide you…"

Her hand floated to his almost all on its own. Lightly, his fingers pressed against hers as she gripped his hand tighter.

"I brought the lamp to light our way. You see? There's nothing to fear, it's really quite easy — one step after another…" He raised up the light again and she saw the long, sloping steps leading down, down, deep under the opera house. "One step...and then another...one step...and then another…"

How easy it was! She followed his pleasant voice, that simple explanation, one step and then another, one foot in front of the other, below to the fifth cellar, deeper than she had ever gone before, down a path she'd never walked. With the lamp before him he turned to face the darkness below, his fingers still in hers. In the gloom, Mme. Voclain's fine beadwork glittered across his shoulders.

Finally, they reached the end point of any voyage below the opera house - the black lake. She had never stood on its banks before, only glanced over the bridge. She stared down at the inky mirror-like surface now mere inches beyond the tips of her boots.

"Madame, this way, please…" he beckoned her further.

His voice and the glow of the lantern kept the cold shadows at bay and she felt compelled, desperate to stay in that warmth. What was this? There was a boat waiting by the bank, and not one of those she knew the workmen used to get around if they ever had to come down to the lake. No, this one was elegant and artfully designed with little lanterns made of intricate lattice work on the prow and at the rear, fancier than anything down in this darkness needed to be.

When he reached for both of her hands, she offered them without hesitation. With his help, she stepped from the bank into the boat, allowing him to guide her to settle into a pile of plush pillows. He sat across from her, then took up two oars and pushed off from the bank. Quick strokes took them further and further into the blackness.

In this utter darkness, between the firm footing of the world she knew and their yet unknown destination, her mind seemed to come together again and she grasped the reality of her situation. She looked back at her charge with clear eyes; between the lanterns, swallowed in the black velvet cloak, he was barely a shape in the dark.

"Where are we going?" She tried hard to keep her voice steady, to keep a tremor of fear from betraying her.

"There," his hand left an oar and pointed beyond the prow. Looking over the front of the boat once more, she saw a glow appear at the horizon of the impenetrable darkness. He rowed faster now, the glimmer growing brighter until she saw them — strange candelabras half-sunk into the black lake, each arm glittering with fat flickering candles. The candelabras created a pathway through the darkness, clustering together, filling the underground cellar with light.

The light was growing brighter at the horizon yet something was obscuring it, slicing through the radiance. Through even the numerous pillows she was perched on, she felt the boat give a small hitch. She spun back to face him, her hands flying to the rim of the boat to steady herself.

"Was it that noticeable?" He asked, pulling up the oars. "I'll have to work on that. Turn around, keep looking."

The boat seemed to be gliding of its own accord on some unseen track, moving slowly towards the glow. Between the boat and the bright lights, she realized there was an immense portcullis. She realized he must have pieced all of this together from various forgotten sets the opera had discarded or stored in the depths of the cellars and perhaps leftover scraps from the war. There was no question of how he had dreamed of cobbling together this underground passage; she recalled the maze in Persia quite well. She remembered all that happened in the maze, too, and knew there was no Nadir to call out to down here in this forgotten realm.

The boat gave another short lurch as if it momentarily caught on something underneath. There was no more push and pull from the oars; they were gliding, the black water shimmering in their wake.

"Like magic — see?" He stood in the boat behind her, slowly raising his hands, and as he did so, the portcullis lifted before them. She couldn't help but gasp as she saw the magnificent sight now fully revealed before her as they moved on. The candelabras clustered and crowded around a doorway but it was unlike anything she (nor anyone on earth, she imagined) had ever seen. There, on the banks of the black water, was a house on the lake, the entire front made up of faceted glass so that it reflected and magnified the lights from all of the candles and the darkness of the water.

The boat glided into a slip of its own accord and he hurriedly stepped out in order to help her disembark. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see how pleased he was that she was gripped with awe. A million multiplied candles winked and shimmered on the reflective glass facets, a maze of mirrors condensed into a wall of light. She allowed herself to be led inside, one foot in front of the other.

The view through the door was the second shock of the night. It wasn't that this area was improbable or incredible in any way — it was perfectly ordinary. Madame Giry, her stomach sitting tight within her, walked across a thick, plush carpet into a foyer that wouldn't be out of place in the homes of one of the opera's wealthy patrons.

"Madame, I've been waiting for my home to be complete so that I may have you over. I'm certain you'll find it quite comfortable and if there's anything you want, you need only ask it of me." He removed his hat and cloak with a small flourish, hanging them neatly on a rack just inside the door.

Noticing that she jumped a bit when he went to remove her shawl, he said, "I can understand what a shock this must be...but I assure you, it's very safe and soundly constructed; I designed it myself. When I saw the lot of land at the far end of the lake, I began dreaming of this place, for everyone wants a little home to themselves, even an Opera Ghost. Once I had the funding, I was finally able to move forward with my plans..."

Madame was quiet for a minute as he led her on to his parlor, gathering the words to express the millions of thoughts running through her head, then asked, "How? How did you build this thing? You can't have done it on your own!"

"No, no, not all on my own, just partially." Here, he giggled, unable to suppress the joy of showing off his genius. "I had to hire a few men to help move the materials down here, set up the foundations, the frames, etcetera."

"You had workmen down here? They know of your house?" Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed hard. "What happened to them?"

"Oh, they weren't here for long. And I promise, none of them disturbed the opera house in any way." He perched on the arm of a deep green sofa, kicking his heels against the floor in an absentminded, quick rhythm. "I put an ad in the paper like any respectable person and had those I needed come to meet me on the Rue Scribe side — only late at night. You _know_ I am very careful, you _know_ I wouldn't give away anything, Madame, so I gathered them up with my voice."

"Your voice…"

" As you know, I can be very persuasive with _just my voice_ ," he said, accenting his words with that tone that snaked behind the eyes and through one's brain.

His giggle broke into a laugh; she wasn't sure if she had ever seen him so happy and if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Yes, my voice, _my voice_! I would sing to them sometimes too and it was just as if they were somnambulists; they had no thoughts of their own at all and they moved at my bidding. We would row across the lake — in much bigger boats, mind you — and then work at it until I was satisfied. I'm sure they wondered, after waking during the day in their homes, sore from laboring and with an honest day's wage in their pocket, what was it they were up to all night!" He gave a wistful sigh. "Sometimes, I'd fiddle, too; made the work go faster and it sounds so lovely there in the dark, echoing all around." Refocusing, he jumped to his feet once more. "Here I am, merely _talking_ about my home when I should be _showing_ you! Come, come, I am so pleased to have you here, my very first guest!"

Gently taking her hand, he led her from corner to corner of the house on the lake, radiating all of the enthusiasm of a child showing off their little sandcastle empire at the edge of the sea. This was no sandcastle that would crumble in waves; this was sturdy, permanent, disturbing. Every new room, finer than any house she had visited in recent memory, made her feel as if a stone was growing in her throat, as if her core was being hollowed out. She hardly could speak and managed only the faintest smile as he demonstrated just what he had been up to these past years.

The parlor was wide and welcoming as if he expected to play host in the black depths below the opera house. A crackling fire chased away the damp and the cold, the mantle crowded with elegant curios or little amusing figures he had made himself - a little ballerina that performed pirouettes in place, a monkey in Persian robes, an intricate clock that marked the phases of the moon, a crystal globe with constellations etched on its smooth, luminous surface.

In one corner there was an immense piano, polished and gleaming, next to that, a harp and a music stand with his violin and bow hanging from it. In another corner, a curio cabinet that reached to the ceiling. Behind the glass was the life size figure of a woman and for a moment, Madame's heart seized, believing he had committed some unspeakable atrocity. He must've noticed her expression change but didn't suspect what she was thinking as he merely gave another strange laugh and opened the cabinet to show off what he called his medical mannikin, or anatomical Venus.

The wooden figure's blonde hair was carved to fall all around her face, her features expressionless and her eyes closed making it seem as if she were asleep. It was mostly all torso, no arms and legs, yet stood propped up on its own on a raised shelf within the cabinet. He explained that it was a medical tool for studying anatomy. To demonstrate, he opened the figure's chest and stomach, showing off the vividly painted removable viscera within. He went on about how it was one of the best models the craftsmen in Germany had to offer, not noticing Madame stumbling back a step, the color draining from her face.

After shutting his mannikin up in the case, he took up her arm once more and continued with the tour, her hesitation going unnoticed. His room was the dreariest by color, all funereal blacks with touches of crimson or royal purple here and there, yet still draped in the finest fabrics and built with the best materials money could buy. On one wall, there was a cozy fire burning in an elegant fireplace. The wall itself was covered with books, so many Madame estimated you could read for years and never come across the same one twice.

There was his bed, all black and hardly visible underneath velvet drapes. Next to it, a woman's vanity set, also black, with a single small mirror and a wig stand set on top. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the most immense object in the room; on the opposite wall, a large and ornate organ. The pipes and the elaborate golden scrollwork were almost the only things that reflected light in this room.

Madame approached the instrument, noticing a libretto thick with worn papers propped up before the keys, a pot of his trademark red ink with a waiting pen on the left. Curious to see what he was working on, she reached out to peel back the cover. A moment before her fingers brushed the leather binding, his hand was at her wrist, his grip gentle yet unequivocal, powerful, the look in his eye suddenly serious.

"Not that, Madame; that music burns...I'll play you something much more pleasant and suitable after supper…"

"Supper?"

"Did you think I would have a guest in my house and not provide supper?" The dark look that fell over him when speaking of his music vanished, replaced with a teasing, bemused sparkle in his eye. In that expression, she saw the child from the Persian palace once more. "Of course I have a lovely meal for us prepared but before that, I want to finish our little tour and show you your room."

"My room…?"

"Madame, don't you find my home much more accommodating than your stuffy, cramped office? On those nights little Meg stays with friends and we have our talks, you can visit with me and stay as long as you like. Don't you find my home more comfortable than that dismal little room with its worn out cot? And your flat, I imagine, is fine but you'd be happier here, don't you think?"

His smile spread across the uncovered half of his face as he opened the door on the opposite end of the hall. The room was handsome and tasteful, lacking the dramatic touches that embellished every surface in the rest of the underground house. Perhaps he rightly understood she wasn't one for dramatic flourishes, and while it was thoughtful, she had the sensation of an animal being led to a pen in a zoo.

"What do you think?" His eyes sparkled in the crackling light from the fireplace.

"...You've obviously put a great deal of thought into this…"

Joy rippled through him and again, she wasn't sure how to feel about it. He was barely able to contain the happiness her appraisal gave him, like a child winning a strict parent's approval.

"You haven't even seen the best part!" He pulled her along towards the back of the room, leading her through another set of doors.

To call it a water closet would be the same as calling the opera house a music hall. There were sconces filled with candles, golden faucets, a walk-in bathtub that could practically fit a small group of people. Modern touches competed and complimented the overall architecture which was done in an Arabic style. It was overdone, gaudy bordering on vulgar, and yet it was apparently something he was quite proud of.

"Feel that warmth?" he said, stamping on the translucent marble floor. "I've got pipes running underneath with hot water flowing through them in the Roman style. Those poor devils at the boilers have to work a bit harder but one deserves a bit of luxury in one's life, don't you think?"

"...It looks fit for the harem of the Persian palace…" she said.

"Yes, yes, I agree…" He nodded, his small, strange smile playing at the corner of his mouth, running his fingers over the myriad decorative tiles that were on almost every surface. "I did all this myself, you know. I wouldn't trust anyone else to get the details just right."

Madame swallowed dryly, imagining him on his hands and knees, methodically placing each and every tiny tile for days and weeks and months and years.

"Enough of all that; you must be famished, Madame…" He was at her elbow again, guiding her back towards the dining room with its gleaming, polished table and rich velvet drapes along the far wall. "I've ordered us a nice little meal, nothing too lavish, and I'll go pluck something from the wine cellar to go with it. Isn't it wonderful - a little wine cellar of my own! I made it out of a little hiding hole left over from the siege, you know. Relax; I'll be right back and promise not to make you wait too long."

He deposited her in one of the chairs at the end of the table then hurried off through yet another set of doors which she assumed led to the kitchen and his precious wine cellar. Alone in this house, her eyes roamed across the details of the art, the shelves, the knick-knacks, the instruments that - neatly - occupied almost every surface. Madame surmised that he had every entertainment at his fingertips. Surely he needed to find some way to pass the time after completing his nest.

Madame noted there wasn't a single mirror or window in the entire place. It wasn't that strange, of course, but it was a small flaw in the overall feel. Maybe there were some windows or something behind the drapes at the end of the dining room; Madame could see the glint of glass between the velvet panels and couldn't help but go over to take a peek.

Pulling back the curtain she saw there was a window, but what was beyond, she couldn't say. It was dark, although there were reflective flashes of light from a distance.

"Oh, you curious thing…"

Madame jumped, for his voice was right in her ear, his eyes over her shoulder. His smile was still there but it was tight, a straight line.

"I shouldn't be upset...It's natural to be curious, and I've made a big show of taking you all around my house." His fingers, firm yet light on her elbow, guided her back to her seat. A variety of dishes were now set on the table as were a few bottles of wine. "That room, Madame, is only for intruders. I should hope you never have to see it in use but you certainly understand that I must protect myself. I have no desire to seek out occupants for that room but if anyone has made the effort to come this far, they surely have no good intentions."

Madame's hands knit together in her lap, her eyes focused on the dark red wine he was pouring into her glass. Nadir had told her about a room in the palace, a chamber where the boy drove men to madness with tricks and torture.

"It's not immediately fatal, I assure you. There's plenty of time to cast judgement if someone finds their way inside. I have many such tricks hidden all around - lassoos and trap doors and such - all for my safety and protection, none of them completely fatal unless I decide it's a necessity. Even that key I gave you, Madame -"

"The key?" Her fingers clutched the key she had attached to the end of her chatelaine.

"- The key for the gate on the Rue Scribe, yes. When you turn that key in that lock, I have a little mechanism attached to it that rings a bell down here. That way, I can start rowing out to greet you when you come to visit. I have other mechanisms to alert me should anyone breech the doors or gates on the way down here."

He poured himself a generous serving and sat down with a sigh, quite pleased with himself.

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Well...I've had the time to do so. But enough of reminiscing - cheers to you, Madame, my very first treasured guest!" As he raised his glass to her, he removed his mask in order to drink from it. Madame raised her glass in an unsteady hand and mustered a passable smile.

.

His good humor continued through the dinner, aided by several glasses of wine, and on to the evening's entertainment. He started with the harp, then on to his violin, and now he was rattling the keys of the piano, practically swooning away with joy.

Madame was still technically nursing her first glass of wine since he kept topping it off for her every few sips. Seated across from the piano with her feet on a plush footstool he provided for her, she listened dutifully with a serviceable smile stuck to her face. As beautiful as his playing was, as happy as she should have been, she felt each tick of the clock behind her on the mantle down to her bones, wondering what time it truly was, how long she had really been there or how long she would be there for. With no windows and no natural light, time ceased to be tangible and its passage became disorienting. The thought that right behind her, that disturbing medical manikin was propped up in its glass case, gave her prickles on the back of her neck.

When it seemed like his latest song was coming to an end, Madame gulped down the remaining wine in her cup, looking for a break in the evening's entertainment.

"Your playing is always exceptional!" She hurriedly ran a thumb across her lip, wiping away a few careless drops of wine. "But you know, it's, ah...it's getting late and —"

"Oh, I've been such a terrible host, haven't I?" He said, dropping his hands to his lap.

"Not at all, I —"

"You probably want to retire to your room. I hope you're satisfied with all that I've provided you, and if you need anything —"

"Actually,"'she interrupted. "I think for tonight it's best if I….if I go back to my own house."

"Go back…." He affixed her with a flat stare over the top of the piano.

"Y-yes...Meg is at a friend's tonight but no doubt she expects me early tomorrow and —"

"I could wake you early tomorrow. You'd be home before the sun rose if you wanted."

"Oh, I'd hate to inconvenience you —"

"It's not an inconvenience." His voice now was disconcertingly even, sober. Going back and forth with him like this was dissolving her courage. She twisted the edge of her bodice between her thumb and forefinger.

"...Meg is expecting me and…" Her pleasant, calculated smile trembled at the edges, betraying the fear she felt. He swung his knees to the side of the bench to stand. As he rose to his full height, his eyes riveted to hers, she felt that perhaps this was the final moment when she would see and experience all that Nadir said he was capable of, that she had offended him and was now to pay the price.

As he crossed the parlor in a few long strides, she flinched and shut her eyes tight. The cruel blow, the tight, strangling grip around her throat never came. Instead, she heard the sound of crumpling fabric and felt a tug on her skirts.

"I can see it! I can see it in your eyes!"

Her entire body was so tense, it was painful to even crack her eyes open. The boy was on his knees before her, practically crawling on his belly like an insect.

"You're scared of me!" He wailed. "You're frightened that I've brought you down here and that I'll never take you back, aren't you? Don't deny it!"

Instantly, she felt as if someone had poured cold water down through her guts. He had finally realized that her hesitation wasn't due to awe of his accomplishment but fear of what his intentions were. The guilt of her betrayal was now burning her alive.

"You think that I would try to keep you here, that I wouldn't let you go if you came to visit. Is that what you think I would do to you? Do you think - do you think I would do that to little Meg?"

How grateful she always was for his talk of "little Meg"! "Little" Meg was fast becoming a woman and Madame had always worried he would take an interest in her but now, perhaps Madame was mistaken there too. This repentance, this sobbing, this distress...A prickling shame washed over her for misjudging him. Her assumption had now shifted the scene, made things perhaps even more dangerous than they would've been if she had only accepted his invitation without any misgivings.

"I only wanted you to feel welcomed and to be comfortable and to be happy! I want to take care of you, everything is just to take care of you, you and little Meg…" He continued, balling up the fabric of her skirt and sniffling into it. "I want to treat you like a queen so you don't have to work so hard...Little Meg...I promise to make her into a star - no, an empress! You wouldn't be desperate for patrons, she could be happy dancing always, free to find her own way in life...I'm sworn to you, to take care of you, because of all that you've done for -" Suddenly, another great sob wracked his body. "Did Nadir tell you about me? Is that why you believe me to be - to be -" She felt his hot tears seeping through her skirts, his bare face pressed to her knees. "Nadir told you the truth about me then! What _he_ really believed then and what _you_ believe now is the truth of me! Nadir thought that I was a - that I am a -"

"No!" Madame gasped, her heart seized in her chest. The creeping shame burned her cheeks, imagining Nadir was there reading her terrible thoughts about the boy. It was already too much for him to believe she thought such things of him; she couldn't bear to have him think that Nadir believed all that of him too.

"No, Nadir never said anything like that, ever. Nadir told me only of all of the good that you were capable of, how intelligent and incredible you are. That's why I always push you, don't you see?"

He moaned into her skirts. Gently, she reached out and stroked his shoulder.

"Nadir said...Nadir said that you had a heart that could contain the empire of the world. To tell the truth, I think he would be a little disappointed that you've decided to content yourself with a cellar and that you only use your genius to play tricks."

He was silent now. Madame's lips trembled as she pressed on.

"With your marvelous home, you've proven to me all of the wonderful things that Nadir believed about you. I always knew you were an unparalleled talent, and now you've truly demonstrated it. I'm...I'm sorry if I gave you any other impression about wanting to leave. I wasn't expecting to stay tonight and I was only worried about little Meg, you see...I never meant anything else…"

Madame couldn't think of anything more to say and simply stayed still, waiting for the next move, her hand gently squeezing his shoulder. He didn't move either, kept his face pressed to her rumpled skirts. She could still feel his warm breath on her knees from the noseless hole at the center of his face, his breathing evening out. Her pulse seemed to keep time with the clock on the mantel, the only sound in the room.

Finally, he slid to the floor, his finely tailored clothes wrinkling and rumpling as he did so. Her breath caught in her throat, anticipating what came next. She bent to touch him, to comfort him, but before she reached him, he crawled away from the room on his belly like an insect. He slithered down the hall to his room, his door creaking and clicking shut, leaving her alone in the parlor.

The wine's effect was completely gone and Madame was left with her clear, sober thoughts and her guilty conscious. She wasn't sure what to do next. If she was desperate enough, she could certainly try to row away; would that anger him and what would be the consequences? Should she go to him, knock on his door, try to draw him out, apologize further? Paralyzed with indecision, she remained in her seat, each heartbeat hammering in her ears, each tick of the clock rippling through her skin.

As if by magic, he appeared before her, footfalls as silent as a cat's. His clothes were neatened and straightened out and his mask was on once more. The visible side of his face, smoothed out and made up once more, was as expressionless as the mask, which did nothing to reassure her, to dissolve the lump in her throat.

"I've been a very bad host, haven't I?" His even, calm voice prickled up her spine. "My behavior was far from civil, Madame, and for that, I profusely apologize."

"No, no, it's I who should apologize -"

"Madame, please…" He took her hands in his again and gently drew her up out of her seat. "I was the one who misjudged you. On top of that, I overreacted. I'm very sorry and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, you did nothing, it was -"

"What a relief to hear you say that, Madame…" They walked towards the foyer and as he slipped her shawl around her shoulders, she could feel herself being caught on the hooks of his deep, beguiling voice. "Whether it was the wine or the excitement from entertaining my first treasured guest, I rather lost myself there for a moment...How unpleasant! I hope you can put that all behind you…"

Madame nodded, her last truly conscious act before she found herself at the gate on the Rue Scribe once more, the boat ride only a blur through the darkness. No, not entirely a blur, because while she was suspended in the sound of his words - and did she recall him singing? She wasn't sure - his eyes never left her, such profoundly sad eyes, and she could see her insidious, accidental betrayal burning deep within them.

"Remember your key, Madame. Should you ever wish to come visit again, or send someone else down, the key in the gate will call me and I'll row over."

Madame's mind broke free from the spell his voice had cast over her. "Send someone else? What do you mean?"

"If you ever felt the need to send someone else down...I would understand, Madame."

"I...I'm not sure what -"

"Fare for the ride home, Madame." He pressed several francs into her hand. "It's late but you shouldn't have a problem finding a ride. I am...I am happy that you got to see my little home. Thank you for visiting me; goodnight." He brought her hand to his mask's lips, then turned and hurried back down into the darkness. From the Rue Scribe at her back, a cold wind curled around her shoulders, pricking her eyes, bringing tears to the corners.


	10. The Mouse

_How long…?_

He staggered to his feet, unsure of the time or day. It was hard to keep track of time down here in the dark, and he usually made an effort to do so to keep a sense of normalcy. The only thing that could take him away from diligently marking the passage of time was that infernal libretto, the one that had a mind of its own - _Don Juan Triumphant._ The music had swallowed him inside of its reams of winding staves and he had just now come out on the other side. It could be hours later, it could be days.

There was a monotonous throbbing between his temples and his tongue sat dully in his mouth. For once he felt actual hunger, so hungry in fact he was weak and even a bit faint. There was likely no food in the house either as he had neglected his chores.

This was no good.

What this meant was most likely days - perhaps even a week? - had passed. It also meant that he might not have the strength to row all the way across the lake. Then what would happen to him?

Well...he wasn't opposed to dying but how inglorious! Dead from want of a morsel to eat! It was offensive - and also obscenely funny. He burst into an uncensored cackle and his mad, lonely laughter echoed back from the cavernous darkness.

First - a drink. In a fit of delirium, He stumbled out to the edge of the black lake, fell to his knees, and scooped some of the water into his mouth. Not the best choice but death by whatever was in the water was slightly more acceptable than dying of starvation.

Like a twisted Narcissus, he paused to gaze at himself in the reflection on the water. Lightly, he dragged his fingers through the surface, creating ripples. In the distortions, he saw his face flicker from bearable to handsome and then back again.

 _Enough of this useless game…_

He returned to his house, fastened his cloak around his shoulders, secured his hat, and set off for the world above, a world he increasingly wished he could do without.

As predicted, he ran out of energy halfway through his journey across the lake. He sank to the bottom of the boat, pulling the oars across himself, and tried to gather his wits. Panting, trying to calm his swirling thoughts, he focused on the lantern on the prow of the boat. Would it truly be so bad if he passed, right here, right now? What was there to live for, what was left for him? By God, he wasn't even interested in hearing another note of music, of playing another bar, of working on his cursed manuscript any further. If he didn't even want music in his life, what was left?

Starvation would get him around the technicality of suicide…He hated how he had a childish concern he couldn't shake to err on the side of Catholicism, something he did not subscribe to or live his life by. Why did he continue to hedge his bets for entry to an unseen paradise? Did he think someone was waiting for him there?

The boat was gently drifting, the lantern flickering, the darkness closing in...there were worse ways to go.

Rudely, the boat bumped against the bank of the shore, jarring him from his peaceful dream and intensifying the pulsing pain behind his eyes. He collected himself, tightening his cloak and swiftly tying the boat's rope to the mooring, muttering curses as he went. Unused to feeling out of sorts, his headache was making even the easiest tasks simply unbearable.

In this miserable mood, he wasn't thinking when he chose his exit through a backstage trapdoor and ran straight into Buquet, the scene shifter. The man gave a cry that did nothing good for his headache but thankfully, he had enough good sense to slip quickly enough back into a trapdoor, confounding the old stagehand. He kept his back to the door, hearing Buquet shuffle about and feel on the walls, searching for the secret of the ghost's appearance. The pulsing in his temples was joined by a rush of blood, his heart pumping furiously. He was surprised to realize he had been just as startled by running into Buquet as Buquet was spooked by his materialization. The day was just full of indignities!

The sound of rehearsal filtered unevenly throughout the opera house; it must be morning, or perhaps early afternoon. He trudged up another few levels, feeling it would be best to take a more out-of-the-way route.

The company was working through some bit of nonsense on the stage and he could hear their current diva, La Carlotta, fussing with Msr. Reyer.

Learning his lesson from his nasty shock earlier, He peered down from a catwalk to see if his way was clear to the ground floor. The path seemed clear...Just as he was about the try to creep out of one passageway and slink over to another, his escape route burst into tumult.

Carlotta swept backstage. Running before her was a petite rat, her little pointe shoes pitter-pattering as she sprinted. Decked out in an elaborate and heavily decorated costume, Carlotta immediately filled up the cramped backstage space, looming over her unfortunate victim. Carlotta reached back and smacked her hard against her cheek with a prop fan clutched in her hand. He frowned. Before Carlotta had an opportunity to tear every strand of hair from the little thing's head, her partner and current leading man, Ubaldo Piangi, pulled her back. Msr. Reyer was next on the scene, with members of the chorus and corps de ballet crowding in. Seeing there was no chance to get through his escape route and lacking the energy and will to go back through the winding maze of hidden hallways, he moaned and sank against the wall, cursing all of these fools that tramped around his theater.

Carlotta, seeing a chance to enhance her narrative, wilted in Piangi's arms as if she was a delicate flower under the harsh rays of the midday sun, all traces of the hellacious force of nature she had been moments before evaporated. There was no wonder where Madame was; they all heard her thumping her cane on the ground to elicit silence from the group. He couldn't help but whimper; all he wanted to do was slither from one hole to another, scrape together something of sustenance, and then go have a nice long bath. Must he be beholden to such nonsense?

"Giry, learn to keep your rats in line!" Carlotta sneered. The lack of respect for Madame in her voice made his fingers twitch.

"What could she have possibly done to -"

Carlotta didn't give Madame a moment to finish before starting up again. "Everyone saw what she did! And this isn't the first time! She stepped on my train, she tried to trip me! Stupid brat, she never looks where she's going, she's always in the way, she wants to undo me!" The fan came out once more as the diva waggled it in the rat's face to emphasize her accusations.

 _Perhaps you'll soon find a rat in your makeup drawer, compliments of the Opera Ghost…!_

Although it was a bit of a funny little nickname for the ballet girls, the way Carlotta called this girl a rat was full of venom. The poor thing seemed so meek, so small, she was more like a mouse than a rat anyways.

When he saw the opportunity to hire Carlotta years ago, he jumped at the chance. With a few letters to the managers - who he had on a short leash - he made sure they fell in line and paid her what she wanted. She sang beautifully, packed each seat in the house, and kept the little rats in line with a well-timed sneer. Her voice was flawless and flexible and yet...that sound that bewitched him once masked her lack of artistry and devotion to the craft. He loathed the way the current prima donna strutted around the stage, hitting her notes flawlessly yet with no emotion other than self love. When Carlotta put on a costume, she was Carlotta still. When she sang an aria, she was only Carlotta, never the character the music was written for. The woman cared for nothing more than herself and it showed. There was not an ounce of art in her soul, no matter how crystal clear her voice was..

 _What a shame._

The girl bowed her head and let Carlotta rain down abuses until a third player entered the scene. Little Meg broke through the commotion and clamped her arms protectively around her fellow ballerina.

"Christine, Christine - what's happened? Madame Carlotta, please! I'm sure she didn't mean anything -"

Carlotta began to rise from Piangi's arms, a vengeful phoenix from a pool of tears, but Piangi quickly pulled her back, hurrying her away while babbling a steady stream of ego-stroking platitudes in an effort to contain the diva. Piangi wasn't the best singer, delightfully mangling the plot and jumbling his phrases, and yet he was a favorite of the Opera Ghost's. His voice had potential, but his self-doubt held him back. Content to be in Carlotta's shadow, he figured.

Msr. Reyer called for a brief recess to cool down after the outburst and the grateful company quickly dispersed. Madame stayed behind to scold the mouse who could only manage a small squeak, stammering out a promise to pay more attention on stage. After making her displeasure understood, Madame, strict but kind, let her daughter have a moment with her friend to mop up the tears. She swept away, searching for the rest of the rats, leaving Little Meg and her fellow dancer, trembling in the soft shadows backstage.

He sighed and slumped to the side, realizing he wouldn't have a clear pathway while they remained. Perhaps he could just rest here until the wee hours of the morning, when all of these bothersome creatures went away. Trying to will away the pounding in his head, he kept watching the two girls as if it were a little opera being put on for his amusement.

"That's going to leave a mark...We'll get something to put on it in a moment," little Meg said, running her thumb along the angry red welt on Christine's cheek. "Come on - don't cry. Look!"

From out of nowhere, like a little magician, Meg produced a small orange, an enormous treat.

"You'll share it? With me?" Christine asked.

"Not if you don't hurry up and take a piece!" Meg's eager fingers made quick work of the peel revealing the little slices within, which the girls hungrily gobbled up. The orange held him captive; he must truly be starving to covet such a silly thing! How he hated the physical needs he had...And these poor girls - this orange was probably the only fleeting taste of anything sweet they would have for ages.

The ballet rats were up practicing from before the sun had risen until long after dark, hours and hours with little reprieve. They were worked until their feet bled and their throats were raw, until every bone and sinew showed under their delicate costumes. They came to the conservatoire with rosy pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, just as this new girl had, and soon the youth was siphoned away from them one way or another. Worked to death, forgotten until they aged out, abused by prospective patrons or worse, the management...

It was all a bit too tragic at the moment for his taste and he thought again of simply setting himself adrift on the boat in the black lake and going to sleep once more, never to wake up again. Poor lamentable creatures, all of them, with short, miserable lives…

"Don't let Carlotta get to you," Meg said between loud, smacking bites of fruit. "She's always in a snit. She's been in a mood every since Monsieur Reyer made her go over that one cadenza."

"I wish I could sing half as good as she does…" The girl twisted the hem of her muslin tutu in her fingers.

"Wish harder - you sing like a crock!" Meg had a little chuckle at her friend's expense. His fingers involuntarily clenched into a fist. Meg, realizing her teasing had cut a bit too deep, put a hand reassuringly on the girl's shoulder. "I didn't mean it, Christine - just trying to shake you up a little, that's all."

Christine sniffed and nodded, keeping her head bowed.

Meg went on, taking a gentle tone. "You really are too sweet...You'll have to toughen up to survive here. You sing well enough, and besides - you're very pretty, which is far more practical."

"Practical?" Christine's head shot up. "What do you mean?"

Meg gave a trilling laugh, swishing her skirt around her legs. "Sorelli didn't get to the top by being so great at ballet."

"But she's a wonderful dancer -"

"She's also very, very pretty. She knows how to catch the eyes of all of the ugly old men in the box seats."

Christine gasped, eliciting another little titter from Meg.

She wasn't wrong, though. Sorelli was a fine dancer but her real talent lay in the way she knew how to ensnare the patrons. What she did to make sure she was kept according to her high standards was none of his business…

...but Meg was. Little Meg had grown over these years into a clever young woman, one with potential to be the kind of artist he promised Madame she could be. A bright gem in the company, even with Madame's sharp eyes and the vigilance of the resident opera ghost, it was difficult to keep the wolves who prowled the opera after hours looking to snatch up prey like her in their ruinous jaws away from her.

No matter how practical, little Giry should seek to be a dedicated dancer only and watch what sort of trouble she looks for. She might be overheard by a fearsome entity like himself or worse - her own mother! He would have to have a word with Madame Giry about her daughter's aspirations.

She, unfortunately, had a point, though...Meg had her golden curls and her little upturned nose and this Christine girl had her watery blue eyes and long, dark locks; they were both pretty in the way that any of the ballet rats that had ever scampered below him were pretty, no more, no less. They had to use the brief bloom of youth to their benefit, and who could blame the poor dears? Hadn't he worried about little Meg's fate himself? He was realistic; he knew the day would come where they would have to find a good match for her to keep her from being torn to tatters by careless patrons. Sorelli had the intensity and strength to play them all on each other and always come out on top. Little Meg wasn't there yet, was still vulnerable, could be lured away with these predatory men's empty promises.

He mused to himself that he must be half out of his mind if he started to feel such sorrows for a pair of pitiful mice like these!

Christine continued working the edge of her tutu in her hands nervously. "But...but I want to focus on my art…my music..."

Meg rolled her eyes. "So focus on it - but keep those ugly old men in the box seats in mind! How about Monsieur Dubois with his big, red nose?" Meg rubbed her own nose until it was bright pink to simulate the gin blossoms on that patron's face. "Or what about Monsieur Boucher? You'd think you'd be a widow within a year but somehow, that old goat keeps going..." Here, Meg pantomimed a hunched over old man while pulling lecherous faces. A little smile began to creep over Christine's face. "Or even better - you could go for the patron in box five!"

"But box five is always empty!"

"Christine! You've been here for so long and you don't know about box five?" Meg gave another roll of her eyes. "You really must have your head in the clouds if you haven't heard the stories. Box five isn't empty...it's where the ghost sits."

"Ghost? Oh, Meg; now you're really pulling my leg." Christine's words were of disbelief but he could see the threads of his legend were already weaving themselves into her imagination with the way her eyes grew larger as she leaned forward to hear more.

"He's real! Sometimes you can even catch him backstage. Those that have seen him says he dresses like any gentleman visiting the opera - tailcoat, white tie, top hat, gloves - but his face is a death's head!"

"That's absurd," Christine protested but pulled her arms around herself a little tighter as if she might feel that deathly specter breathing on her neck.

"He's so important, even the managers listen to him, so you should be respectful of Monsieur Le Fantome." Meg lifted her chin haughtily. "How do you think I became leader of a row? He put in a good word with Monsieur Poligny when he saw how hard I was working."

"Meg, really!"

"You should be careful back here, Christine...Monsieur Le Fantome might pop out of some dark corner and grab you!" Meg pretended to pounce on her friend, and both of the girls nervously laughed. If he hadn't been practically out of his mind with hunger, he might not have found it as funny as he did, but as it was, he couldn't contain himself and joined in with a chuckle of his own.

"What was that?" The girls fell silent and huddled close together. He quickly muffled his laugh into his sleeve.

After a moment, the mouse grew morose, her pale eyes distant and unfocused. "I wish ghosts were real but there's no such thing...Papa told me...He said that when he was in heaven, he would send me the Angel of Music...Once the angel visits you, you are transformed, able to sing or play music in a divine way…I never have heard the angel's voice. I wasn't any good in the chorus and I'm afraid if I keep making mistakes, I'll be turned out of the corps soon...and then..."

Meg looked upon her friend with pity. "Your papa kept you very sheltered, Christine. He's been gone a long time now and it's best if we left all of those stories in the past…" Meg said it gently enough but the poor girl seemed undone. She bit her lip and quietly nodded, no doubt realizing that whatever stories her late father had spun for her were rapidly fading in the face of cold reality. Poor innocent! She truly was too old to be believing in such fairytales; more a woman than a young girl yet still wrapped in fantasies. She would never thrive on the stage and would likely never survive off of it. Perhaps it was best if she just picked some fine young fellow from one of the box seats and made a respectable little wife of herself…

He was shaken once again from his irreverent thoughts by the girls' sudden gasps and stifled screams. He peered through his peep hole, angling to get the best view of the two down below. Buquet had materialized at their sides, chortling as he watched them nervously swirl their muslin skirts around their legs.

"Frightened you good, didn't I?" the old man said, worrying a length of rope through his gnarled hands. "Bet you thought the opera ghost had finally caught up with you!"

As he was enjoying frightening the two dancers, Buquet made a dire miscalculation - whether he realized it or not. In one careless moment, Buquet sealed his fate.

There were many ways a master of the flies could lose a finger working the traps or mangle a hand in the ropes. But now, he had guaranteed the Opera Ghost himself would take his hand as retribution for his next action: Buquet pinched little Meg's shoulder. He tried to disguise it as a playful action but there was an unwholesome impulse just under the surface, the way his eyes roamed over the curve of bare flesh and his fingers stayed a little too long leaving little Meg shuddering at his touch. She clasped her friend's hand and the two of them scampered away, leaving the old man laughing low and under his breath, his eyes pinned to them as they hurried off.

After what seemed like an eternity, Buquet meandered away, leaving him free to slither through this part of the backstage area unseen. Msr. Reyer called an end to recess from the stage and the company regrouped. Mewling praise and sycophantic compliments floated into the eaves; La Carlotta needed to be celebrated for merely existing so that the group could get back on with their rehearsal. She swanned around the center of the stage as if getting over her idiotic temper tantrum was a grand accomplishment. Seeing her there, basking in contrived glory, inspiration struck his half-starved brain. She always had a variety of gourmet tidbits on hand in her dressing room. If she was on stage and the company otherwise occupied, he could raid her room for sustenance and to pettily deprive her of her goodies.

.

Carlotta's dressing room was the finest in the company's and was always filled to the brim with gifts and cards. Her taste in decor was outlandishly tacky. Even he had to admit that although he had an eye for flamboyant decor, the diva's sensibilities veered towards the obscene. What wasn't brocaded, gilded, overstuffed, and polished to within an inch of its life in this room? And were there any photos of friends, family, loved ones? No - only photos and playbills and advertisements for La Carlotta.

 _What a self-centered bitch._

He must remember to get that rat and place it somewhere in here...One more rat for him to pity.

Aha - there, on the vanity, was a tray of goodies. Hand outstretched and practically salivating, He lunged for it shamelessly. But then - he came into sight in the vanity's mirror and recoiled just as quickly. Had he forgotten to wear his mask? His hands flew to his bare face, ashamed and suddenly frightened. The straight-on mirror and the strong illumination in the room was much different than the black water on the lake. No wonder Buquet had practically had a heart attack when they had come face to face!

There was no one here, he told himself; no one to see his face now. The door was locked. He was alone and it certainly wasn't anything he hadn't seen before!

 _Let's be reasonable!_

Shaking, he slowly lowered his hands. _It's just the hunger, that's all. And this bright lighting! Just take the tray and go back home, back to the dark._

Averting his eyes from the mirror, he steadied his hands and snatched up the entire tray.

 _There - that wasn't so hard!_

He sealed himself up behind a beloved trap door and hurriedly devoured the exquisite morsels. He decided to keep the tray as well - another nice little piece for his collection. Stashing it away, he went in search of more nutritious fare.

After finally satisfying his hunger, he once more retreated to his home on the lake, leaving the opera and the world above behind for the moment. Feeling much better, he set about doing his usual chores, trying to find his normal rhythm. He placed the stolen tray in the drawing room, stashed a few tinned foodstuffs away for later; all the routine things he had to do to keep his life humming along without inconvenience.

But he couldn't shake the melancholy that had gripped him, the feeling that there was nothing to live for, nothing to do. All of his accomplishments were hollow; his pursuit of knowledge practically worthless. Perhaps if he was like anybody else, he could do something with his discoveries and talents but as Madame noted so long ago, he had to content himself with living in a cellar and playing tricks. This wasn't a life; it was a dim shadow, an approximation.

At least he was happy alone, glad that he didn't have anyone to speak to. How terrible it was to have someone hovering around, staring at him, pitying him, asking useless questions - or worse, trying to befriend him. What good was friendship to him? He could sense how disappointed Madame was in him although she tried not to show it. And he never invited her for dinner in his home again; he should've known what she suspected of him. Making a human connection was a precursor to catastrophe.

The memory of Nadir struggling instinctively against the Punjab lasoo even as he submitted to it swam before his eyes, haunted him...

Beyond the burden of his endlessly miserable memories was a new nagging thought that he was done with music. His opera wasn't finished and yet he had no desire to write another note. For once, he didn't care what play they were putting on above his head. He thought about the soulless Carlotta, the sad little rats, little Meg Giry and her practicality...He owed her mother a debt, still; could he bow out graciously with that obligation unfulfilled?

He was reminded of the circumstances of his debt and decided that perhaps he would try to rouse himself from his depression once more: he would go to hear mass in the morning. If it did not affect him, then that would be one experiment completed.

After mass, he would take in a performance that night. If the theater didn't move him as it once did, then...perhaps there wasn't anything left in the realm of flesh and blood. He felt resolute and calm inside, strangely peaceful with the thought of ending everything. It was the conclusion his life was building to anyways; why not just edit the story to make it more digestible for an impatient audience?

* * *

 _I want to take a moment to once again thank all of my loyal readers and welcome anyone new to my story. I'm sorry my posting has been so uneven; taking on a third job actually ISN'T conducive to having free time for writing! Who would've guessed? In any case, I was able to get this chapter out a little faster because it was actually written all the way back in 2017 as a flashback in a long_ Love Never Dies _piece that will be coming out after_ Wandering _is finished._ Wandering _and it's precursor,_ Rosy Hours Redux _, were just supposed to be small flashback chapters and blossomed into their own giant fics lol. Every part of this story came to me in one bolt of inspiration back in 2017 and it's just been a struggle getting it typed up. I hope you continue to enjoy it and I apologize if I haven't thanked everyone for reading and reviewing lately but please know it's very much appreciated!_


	11. The Angel of Music

He took the long way through the catacombs and came up through a long-ignored mausoleum behind a tiny, out of the way church. Wrapped in a cloak, scarf, and his wide-brimmed hat, he would likely be mistaken for a poor penitent or a vagrant who just wanted to come in out of the cold. Of course, he wore a mask, this one of soft, supple leather that covered his entire face. In the right light, it could look almost like skin, at least until one looked closely at it. The scarf and hat really did most of the work but the mask was for safety.

After a jaunt through the graveyard, he slipped into a back pew briefly before service began. Keeping his hat low, he was grateful the church was mostly empty today, not the full Sunday service. The motions were a routine action that never seemed to leave him but he performed them without emotion. Truthfully, this whole church business was never anything he was wedded to but he could never shake it off all the way. The music - the music is what always got him. How beautiful the pipe organ was, and the chorus singing together words of love and humanity and brotherhood, of divine transformation, enough to make a lost soul believe!

The pull to sing with them was too strong and he slipped up, feeling a few notes rise from his throat, allowing himself to join his voice to the others. A few congregants close to him began to turn and he immediately stopped. He was drawing attention, which never ended well. He knew the power of his voice, how it drew people to him. They wanted to listen but they never heard him. Then that would lead to them wanting to see him, and once they did…He silenced himself quickly and lowered his face.

His eyes drifted to the altar at the front. There was a younger priest standing before it, addressing those gathered. He invited them to come up front for communion on the very spot the old man who once tended this flock died from shock, a very nasty shock, one he received as payment for his curiosity. He should've known better…

Mass had done nothing for the leaden weight within his chest. In fact, he felt even more disturbed than before. He hadn't come to the church for over a decade and it stirred uncomfortable memories in him, just like everything else. Nadir's sacrifice, the priest falling dead at his feet from the fright of seeing his face, the life debt he owed Giry...He was consumed by the past and he longed to finally be free of it.

He was so lost in thought as he slowly meandered back through the cemetery, he didn't see the little dark haired mouse darting between the tombstones. Like a proper mouse, she gave quite a squeak upon colliding with him. Petrified, he peered down and saw she had dropped a handful of flowers. The poor thing must have a relative nearby - didn't little Meg say something about a late father?

He was grateful his gentlemanly manners kicked in or else he would've continued standing there like another sculpture in the graveyard. He swiftly stooped down and collected the bunch of flowers for her. They were very pretty; poor dear must've spent her only sad little sous on the bunch.

He stood up slowly, terrified to be forced into an interaction with a human being so unexpectedly and at such close proximity. He swore to every entity he could think of that he would never ever come above ground again!

He allowed himself a peek at her upturned face, so close to him he could see the still-angry welt Carlotta's fan had left on this girl's pretty pink cheek.

"Monsieur…?" The girl's voice was timid and small, yet it seemed to fill his ears so completely it blocked out everything else. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the mausoleum wasn't that far away…

But first -

Trembling, he handed the flowers back to her. She looked down at the flowers, at his hands, his abnormally skeletal hands, and then up at his eyes, and he just knew that under the shadow of his hat, they must be shining in their strange way. He was moments away from her noticing his mask and getting curious or getting scared and then what? Nothing good, nothing good at all!

In sheer terror, he turned from the girl and bolted back to his safe space, back to the hidden passageway in the disused mausoleum, burrowing quickly under the hidden trap door. Safe in the cool darkness, he heard her call out "monsieur" a few more times and poke around inside, looking to see where he could've disappeared to. Her footsteps finally receded; perhaps he'd just given her a good ghost story to trade with little Meg.

Clutching his shirt above his hammering heart, he thought to himself that this was no way to live - running in terror from a petite, half-starved, overworked chorus girl!

A twig of a girl he could easily snap in half if she so much as screamed…

 _What a terrible thought!_

That was the worst of it - that he had been so conditioned, so molded by the past he would never shake his twisted impulses to hurt or kill to save himself. He had sworn to Nadir that he would never take another life if he could help it, he had tried for his own sake as well as for the promise, but the terror that drove him to murder was always close, an instinct that threatened to seize him and take control.

Even if there was a God to hear his prayer and he was granted an ordinary face like anyone else, his soul was beyond redemption. The past was a long and twisted road and he was weary, so weary, of traveling his dark path alone. The ultimate destination that all men come to in the end felt closer than ever. Tonight, he would make his last attempt at connection with this world.

After a bit of a rest and a nice glass of tokay to steady his nerves, he put on his best gentleman's clothes and prepared for a night at the opera. His cloak, hat, gloves, and cane completed the look - but no makeup and no mask tonight. For whatever reason, he felt he couldn't go through with the ordeal of covering up.

The orchestra was warming up just as he slipped into box five. As he didn't have any planned engagements, he didn't have to hide in the column and throw his voice; he was free to sit in the back, in the shadows, and observe without being seen.

The last few audience members were finally finding their seats, still gossiping and tittering in hushed voices even as the overture began. Their ignorance and pettiness seemed so very annoying tonight; it made the exhaustion of existence cling to him like cobwebs he couldn't clear away.

This production didn't feel interesting, didn't move him one way or another. La Carlotta was her usual unbearable self. Piangi seemed to create new syllables out of thin air, butchering the material. There was a bassoon who played so ridiculously off it's a wonder the conductor didn't snatch the innocent instrument away and beat the man over the head with it. Little Meg, at least, was proving herself worthy of her promotion, even if she did cast her eyes up to the "ugly old men in the boxes" as she called them, a little too often. The little mouse from before was all the way in the back and for good reason, too; she seemed to be a half second behind the rest of the corp.

 _Head in the clouds, that one._

The key turned at the door, and he tensed up, ready to disappear into a trapdoor. The gasp he heard seconds later told him it was merely Madame Giry, checking the box.

"Monsieur - you haven't come for weeks…" She closed the door quickly behind her. He didn't turn around, sparing her the sight of his bare face. "I have your salary. You haven't come to collect it and I thought if you were here tonight..." She produced an envelope packed with 20,000 francs and thrust it over his shoulder.

"...Why don't you take it?" he said, pushing the envelope away.

"Monsieur?"

"Take the money for yourself. I have more than I know what to do with and there's no joy anymore in spending it."

"And wouldn't it be suspicious that I, a humble ballet mistress who has been known to carry notes for the opera ghost, suddenly had such a windfall?"

"Leave the theater. You can make a tidy little life for yourself and your daughter, you wouldn't have to teach again."

She scoffed. "What would I do if I wasn't teaching? And Meg loves to dance, is born to dance!"

He sighed. "Do you know what I heard little Meg saying? She spoke of aspiring to a career like Sorelli's, admired her methods that brought her fame."

The elder Giry was silent. He could almost hear her mouth straightening into a hard line, her spine locking up like a steel rod.

"...I suppose she is at that age now where women begin to wonder what will become of them and trade in their little boyfriends for husbands - or patrons." She hit every syllable hard, her bitter realization that time was running out evident. He sat in silence, waiting for her to speak again, but she remained still, staring down at her daughter on the stage.

Finally, he said, "If you take the money, she wouldn't have to wonder what would happen to her."

"You said you could make things happen for Meg. You said she could be an empress. A leader of a row is only so far - "

"Circumstances have changed. And that money will keep you as good as royalty if you're smart about how you spend it."

"So that is how you will erase your debt with me?"

He said nothing.

"This is about something more than the money, isn't it monsieur?" She leaned close to him, startling him. It took every ounce of self control to remain still.

"I am leaving tonight. Probably during intermission," he said flatly.

"And where are you going?"

"Away. I won't be coming back."

"Where you're going you won't need money?"

He shook his head no. The opera continued below them, a number with the chorus. One of the girls' voices cracked. Little Meg was overacting her heart out at the front. The little dark haired mouse missed a cue and swatted a cohort with an outstretched arm by accident, earning a few noticeable glares.

 _What a lamentable mess!_

Madame Giry curtly whispered "Monsieur, I feel that you are forgetting the debt you owe me. I saved your life and it would be very poor form to throw away the gift I have given you."

"I didn't ask -"

"- We have had this conversation before. And I will say to you again that your genius deserves better. You need to find a way to develop it, to satisfy it." After another long stretch of silence, she said "Listen to me - you know I'm right. I have been as good as a mother to you, haven't I?"

He flinched, the words piercing his resolve. He couldn't find the strength to answer her.

"Your salary, Monsieur Le Fantome. I expect to see you again at the next performance." Madame dropped the envelope into the seat next to him and swiftly left box five.

 _Damn._

He wished he hadn't had this particular interaction. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat until intermission, finally deciding that, yes, he was leaving and that was that. He stood and took one long, last look at the theater. As the rest of the patrons milled about, discussing this or that, getting lost in their own little dramas, His eyes swept over the beautiful building that he had called home for the last several years, the gilded ornamentations, the scrollwork, the velvet, the polished wood.

He felt nothing.

The second experiment finished, he collected his hat and gloves and slipped into the back passages for his final descent.

Heading down once more, every step felt heavy and final. Could he wash his hands of the Girys? Yes. Could he leave the opera behind? Yes. He was so tired, of being scared and being forced to run to ground. All the trappings of an ordinary life, even the smallest kindness, had been denied to him, except in rare, all too brief moments that ended in blood and misery. More than ever, he felt beyond inhuman. In an instant of black humor, he thought that perhaps he would be cursed to wander the halls as a true ghost once the deed was done. Whatever waited on the other side, an eternity of more suffering or an endless dark sleep, he was ready.

He paused.

Through the walls, he could hear a few stage hands moving things around, getting ready for the next half of the performance. But in between all of them, there was a voice, a very faint voice, but pure and sweet. He followed the enchanting sound and as he drew closer to the source, every sparse hair on his body stood on end.

He knew this song.

The melody was familiar, yes, but he was hearing lyrics added to the tune for the first time. This particular song felt woven into the fabric of his soul and the sound transported him back

to his childhood in the traveling fairs, to when he was exhibited like an animal in a cage. Although the music was enchanting, it wasn't altogether a happy memory he revisted, remembering when his owners had beaten him half to death for a transgression he didn't comprehend. They had been angry, perhaps drunk, and heavy-handed, leaving him so wounded he couldn't be displayed, costing them more money and making them angrier. Feverish, he felt himself succumbing to his infections until - this sweet melody lifted him from the darkness. The song he heard then had been played so artfully on a violin, the music drifting from the traveler encampment, showing him a moment of beauty in a cruel world. He felt the desire to go on, the need to keep living and was able to pull himself back from the brink of death by sheer will.

The singing stopped.

 _No - I need more!_

"Angel…!" A quavering voice gasped on the other side of the wall. "I hear you crying, o angel…"

He was surprised to find that he had been weeping. With no mask, his tears flowed unimpeded down his face.

 _An angel…_

He recalled the little mouse from before, praying for the Angel of Music; it must be her on the other side of the wall. She must've heard his uncensored cries coming from an unseen place and assumed he was the divine entity she was searching for!

In the past, he had been told his weeping was just as beautiful as his singing. Before he had found his voice, his owners had earned money by finding ways to make him cry when they showed him in the freak show. And, oh - how the little princess liked to keep him in tears! But he was not an angel, the furthest thing from it, yet he desperately needed to hear her voice. Would it be so wrong to ask her to sing again?

"Please, please sing for me...just once more…" He whispered, desperate to hear her voice again. Instead of singing, he heard a loud gasp. He crept along in the dark passageway until he found one of his spy holes to take a look at what was happening on the other side of the wall. The poor thing was frozen in shock, a look of religious ecstasy and terror on her lily white face. Her hands clasped together in prayer, she sunk to her knees.

Madame Giry rounded the corner, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her up.

"Mademoiselle Daae, just what are you doing back here on the floor? You need to be in the other wing! Look, you've got black spots on the knees of your tights! Come along and - " she stopped short seeing the look of awe and fear on the girl's bloodless face. "My god, what happened?" Madame quickly glanced around, checking to see if someone was nearby, a prowler looking to corner a dancer in the wings.

Trembling, Christine turned to her. "I was warming up my voice for the next scene and - and -" She breathed sharply. " - I heard an angel weeping!"

"An angel…?" Now Madame cast her eyes above them, perhaps expecting to see a pair of bright sparking stars shining in the gloom. "Girl...do you think you can finish the program?"

Christine stared back, mute and wide eyed. Madame sighed.

"Go back to the dressing room. Collect yourself. If you need to go home, you are free to do so."

Christine nodded.

Madame added, "There are no angels here, Christine. Now go on back to the dressing room and be safe."

The girl walked on, head bowed, hands woven together so tightly the knuckles were bright white. He couldn't let her go, needed to hear her sing again.

 _Follow me_ , he whispered, throwing his voice ahead of her. _Follow me, follow me, follow me_ , he called in his bewitching voice, leading her down a little used corridor, back to an old dressing room that served partly as storage. The girl hardly knew where she was when she closed the door and stood inside the dark and half empty room. Blinking, she slowly brought up the gas lights and looked around. She crept carefully around the room, her eyes searching in the dark corners for her unseen angel.

In this room, he had installed a two-way full length mirror. It was very convenient; the mirror was on pivots and it was one of the his favorite access points to his home. Since no one ever came this far back, he could come and go mostly as he pleased. Now, the glass was all that stood between him and the mouse.

"I'm here with you, child...Don't be afraid." In the dark, behind the mirror, he wasn't afraid either. He was safely hidden; there was no danger of her approaching him, seeing him.

Upon hearing his voice, she sunk again to her knees, reverent and fearful, her little sylph costume floating all around her.

"Angel, I'm unafraid...Please show yourself to me!"

The request shocked him even though he knew she would ask it of him. "No! No...you mustn't see me."

Startled by the command in his voice, her shoulders shot up around her ears. "Forgive me if I offended you!"

"It's not that…" he sighed. "It's for your own protection. You've heard scripture -"

"Of course!"

" - so you know that angels are not the sweet painted cherubs they depict flitting about in works of art. Angels have swords of fire to cut the tongue from the devil's mouth. Heaven is filled with wheels within wheels all ablaze, with creatures covered in eyes. Why, when Moses came down from the mountain after communing with God, his face was shining so brightly, he had to wear a veil, did he not? The one angel who was the most beautiful of all of the heavenly host was Lucifer, and I imagine you don't want to see him. You don't want to see me, Christine...you must never see me."

"Yes, Angel!" Christine bowed her head once more. She didn't ask how he knew her name, probably assuming that he was a divine envoy, not a peeping, creeping creature of the shadows. How wicked he was, manipulating a young girl for his own perverse needs! Her voice, though, had moved him, had guided him like a lighthouse shows a ship a safe harbor in the midst of the blackest storm.

It was just one song.

"Sing for me," he commanded. The girl, hesitant and shy, managed to squeak out the notes of the beautiful old folk tune. When she finished, she waited in awe, anticipating her angel's next order.

He sighed.

"Have I displeased you?"

"Your voice is so beautiful and yet…" he paused, searching for the right words. "...and yet, you're strangling it with your doubt, burying your gift under your own uncertainty." He hesitated. Her voice truly was crystal clear, rare in its purity of sound. She could possibly be a great talent but before him was no prima donna, only a quivering, superstitious little mouse.

"Teach me, Angel! Give me your guidance so that I can express your genius through music!"

Her request, delivered in the meekest of voices, rocked him to his core. This scene had shifted without warning, and it seemed like the ground under him had given way. They both had desperate requests to make of each other; could he be responsible for this girl's tutelage, speak to another human being, guide her towards greatness?

He stepped back from the mirror, as petrified as she was on the other side of the glass. To have such an incredible creature make a request of him...

The idea took hold inside of him, gathered momentum. He felt the rush of inspiration, the thrill of having a new project to pursue. Here, hidden in a forgotten room, he could control the situation. He could go unseen, keep a conversation with one single person at a time, just as he did with Madame Giry, just as he did with Poligny. With an undiscovered voice this extraordinary, under his guidance, perhaps he could create the next great star of the opera, bring a fresh and incredible new talent to the stage. What beauty was within his grasp!

"Angel! Are you there…?"

"Yes, I'm still here. I was contemplating your education…"

"Please - please teach me!" She begged him very prettily on her knees, her wide blue eyes swimming in her earnest tears, her hands clasped and outstretched. He was quite taken aback by the gesture. If only she knew the ruined wretch she made her entreaties to!

"...I will tutor you, Christine, but I have conditions."  
"I will meet every last one!"

"Good. You must obey me in everything - "

"Without question!"

"You will devote yourself to your studies. This includes your dancing - you must show improvement - but not too much. Keep your singing modest until the time is right."

She nodded.

Continuing, he said "You must tell no one of the Angel of Music. Not your dance mistress, not any family you might have, not your little friend Meg. No one must know of our arrangement or I will leave you forever."

She gave a little cry of distress. It pained him to manipulate such a trusting soul...yet how many times had he done other things far more wicked? Why, the way it was shaping up, she would be getting a very fine education and he would have a replacement for that hideous Carlotta.

 _It will be fine_ , he tried to reassure himself; _this is no grave matter_.

Somewhere, in the furthest corner of his mind, was the sensation that he was setting in motion events that would change him, winding up a monstrous machine that could unmake him completely.

"Meet me here after rehearsals. Come alone and tell no one."

"Yes, Angel."

With that, he dismissed her, but he didn't leave her. He followed her through the halls, looking through his spy holes to be sure she made it back to the girls' changing room, as if he were her proper chaperone. Madame was waiting for her, scolded her for wandering about, yet her expression was only of concern. The girl had color back in her cheeks and she didn't seem as distraught, reassuring Madame that she was still a bit faint, but better. Feeling that he had done his duty to see her safely returned and handed off to her minder, he set off towards home, inspiration singing in his veins.


	12. The Intruder

Time seemed to skip, to run, to fly during these wonderful hours. Christine proved to be a pious, dedicated pupil, but even better than her capacity to learn was her untapped talent. With a bit of encouragement, she was soon excelling more than he imagined. He was learning much, too, discovering that this human being he'd reached out to was extraordinary in many surprising ways.

Christine assumed her angel watched over her day and night, but his purview was only the opera house. Although the first few times they met he watched her on stage and saw her safely off after their lesson, he soon became obsessed with seeing her from the moment she stepped foot through the performer's doorway to the second she slipped away into the night, returning to her apartment. Those hours in between were very informative indeed!

Unlike the other girls who spent their time smacking their hairdressers and trading glasses of cassis, Christine kept herself busy with a strange little routine. It was as if the painted skies and paper flowers of the sets were a kingdom for her to traipse through as benevolent sovereign ruler. She went all about the opera, up to the riggings where she walked as naturally as a cat across the ropes, and down to the dark, forgotten corners where the people who time had left behind lived in shadows. She kept to the same corners and shadowy pathways he did and he imagined that the only reason they hadn't crossed paths before was because he was usually out and about when the house was dark, quiet, and empty.

She was polite to the set painters and interested in all that went on in the wardrobe department. There was always a sweet or two in her pocket for the smaller rats just learning their rond de jambes and port de bras at the school. It seemed there wasn't a soul who passed through the entire opera house who didn't know her and her little acts of kindness.

What struck him most was how she seemed happiest when she was alone. She was sweet and polite with those who worked behind the scenes, shy and quiet in the corps, nervous and fretful on the stage. Alone, she smiled, she sang little songs to herself, she had a spring in her step and a sparkle in her deep, watery blue eyes.

When she started to relax during her time learning from her corrupt angel, she began a new habit after every lesson that melted his every reserve and left him no choice but to yield to her.

"You've seen so much of the world, angel; please tell me a story!"

She begged stories from him and after her fierce dedication to her studies, how could he refuse her? She sat on cushions on the floor or in an overstuffed chair and listened, enraptured, as he recounted the fairy tales he had learned from all of his travels, or modified versions of his own experiences from all around the world.

Soon, she began to ask her angel if he knew the tales of the north her Papa had taught her. Feigning unearthly ignorance, he let her tell him all of her stories - and what a natural storyteller she was! He took his turn, sitting in front of the mirror and intently hearing her yarns. She was a gifted actress as well, performing all of the parts with enthusiasm and affecting adorable voices, her eyes sparkling with the joy of storytelling. He was certain, now more than ever, that when she finally took the stage in a starring role, it would be an unparalleled tour de force. How blessed he was, how grand it felt to be on the cusp of such greatness and to contribute to the makings of a star unlike any other.

It was then he realized that one day, he would have to release her, that their lessons would come to an end as she ascended to the rank of prima donna. She would go on to be one of the figures he looked down on from his perch in box five, living a life beyond him and without him. This vision troubled him...and what was the point of feeling this way?

Christine hurried to her appointment with her angel after the last performance of the week, making sure she wasn't seen slipping down the dark corridor that led to the forgotten dressing room. Keeping the lights low, she took her place in a cushioned chair at the center of the room, longing to hear his heavenly voice. She knew when he was there because she would feel a strange electricity in the air that made her skin prickle. Soon, she was communing once more with her unseen angel.

The angel went over certain points in her performance and gave her a bit more instruction than usual, yet at the end, the Angel of Music asked a strange question.

"Christine…" the angel asked. "...do you think...we're friends?"

"Friends?" She cocked her head to the side, considering a friendship with a divine entity.

"I would very much like to be your friend…" His heavenly voice now sounded so human, so small.

"Well, we meet regularly and talk often and find things in common with one another and I look forward to spending time with you - does that make us friends?"

There was a sigh - of satisfaction or sadness, she wasn't quite sure.

"You're unlike the other humans I've met. You are so very kind, Christine, kind and thoughtful and...and I enjoy talking to you and spending time here and...I would be fortunate to be your friend."

She bowed her head with humility to hear this great compliment from a divine being. But why did her angel sound so somber? It was so at odds with how she felt at the moment for she was brimming with restless joy; she had wonderful news and was aching to share it.

The angel must've noticed. "You seem quite excited tonight. Your performance went well…Is there something more?"

"Well, speaking of friends - " she said, giddy and unthinking. "- I saw someone I haven't seen for many years in the audience tonight. My dear friend and childhood playmate, Raoul."

There was silence.

"I...I haven't seen him since we were perhaps 12 or 13...When we were children we spent entire summers together in my little village. Papa would tell us stories, or we'd go around begging here and there for tales from our neighbors. Oh, he's so grown up now! He's a vicomte, you know...His older brother has a reserved box seat and that's where I saw him tonight. I doubt he even recognizes me, or even remembers me…"

The silence in the room was leaden, the atmosphere was changed. Her skin had the same prickle of electricity but this was different.

"Angel?" Christine received no reply. "Angel!"

She cried for him again and again but the room remained silent. Christine began sobbing, pleading for his return, yet the angel didn't answer her fervent prayers.

Her angel, upon hearing her speak of her fine young fellow, had turned from his place at the mirror and began to walk with stiff, heavy limbs as if controlled by unseen forces down the dark hallways, headed to his boat on the black lake, feeling as if those icy waters had poured into him up to his eyeballs. Her desperate cries followed him through the dark until they faded away and he was finally alone with his thoughts once more. He undid the mooring on the boat and began rowing his way back home, as lifeless as one of the many wind-up automatons in his workshop.

 _Raoul! Her little playmate! Her dear childhood friend!_

 _A vicomte even!_

Those ugly old men in the box seats had handsome younger brothers, didn't they? And a young woman who has begun to wonder what will become of her sets her eyes on a husband or a patron - or a lover! That was just the way things were at the opera, so why should it be so different for Christine? She was a girl like any other - and this had played out before in front of him many, many times!

But she was so close to greatness; he was certain with a few manipulations, she would be ready to take the stage. It wouldn't do for her to get entangled in some senseless little affair.

Well - wouldn't that make her more desirable? And a vicomte had deep pockets - more funding for the opera! They could put on any damn production they wanted with that kind of cash flow! Maybe the Opera Ghost should get a bonus!

He was shaking, rowing so frantically his shoulders felt as if there was lightning racing through his aching muscles. He pulled the oars up and threw them to the bottom of the boat, taking a moment to compose himself.

 _What has gotten ahold of you?_

He ran his hands over his hairpiece to slick it down further. Listening to his ragged breathing, a terrible thought edged into his mind.

 _It can't be -_

He scrambled to the side of the boat and looked down at this reflection, illuminated by the lantern that hung from the prow. As the waters stilled, the image of his face coalesced on the glassy surface.

There in the water was the reflection of his face, as palatable as it could possibly be, covered by his white half-mask. Here in the darkness, with kind shadows and forgiving candlelight, its contours made it almost seem alive. It helped that he had made up the better half of his face, light powder and little line of kajal on the eye to define it, a touch of color on the cheek to give a bit of life to his features. To make up for the lack of eyebrow he had drawn one on, robust and masculine, giving him a better range of expression. To top it all off, his wig of dark chestnut hair, exactly the color he had as a child, the last time he had any kind of substantial hair on his head.

 _How ridiculous, how ludicrously vain! She can't even see me!_

Why, he could wear nothing at all behind the mirror and she wouldn't be the wiser! So why had he dressed so nicely and made himself up with care and attention, fussing over every tiny detail?

Because…

Because.

Because a terrible feeling had begun to wind itself around inside of him, an insidious little emotion that originated in his heart and had seeped deep into his bones before he had a chance to stop it dead in its tracks.

How tricky, how artfully devious this sentiment was! How very dangerous! It was worse than he feared...He realized in this moment that he had begun to care for Christine, care for her beyond the way a tutor feels about seeing his most gifted student excel.

When did it even start? This feeling had snuck up on him without warning, infiltrated his soul, taken him by surprise. He could not feel for her - would not! It was madness, an impossible madness!

That madness propelled him across the lake, rowing now as if the waters were burning fire. He raced up the steps to his home, to his bedroom. There, on his vanity, was an object covered in black velvet. He whipped it away and sat down in front of it, steadying himself.

He brought a few candles closer to his mirror, his twisted wedding present from the princess' cruel prank in Persia, a looking glass meant to reflect eternity. He needed to chase away these emotions inside of him, needed to see himself as he truly was. After a moment's hesitation, he snatched the mask away from his face.

There it was - the distortion that defined him. Lips pulled back into a snarl, a gaping black hole for a nose. Bare eyebrows, a smattering of eyelashes. He pulled his wig off and dropped it to the side revealing his disheveled, wispy grey hair. The main deformity on the right side of his head stuck out among the grey strands - a huge depression uncovering a gruesome section of his thick skull.

What would Christine say if she saw her angel like this? Christine was kind, sweet, patient, and loving but still sheltered, still superstitious. Could she possibly see past his wretched appearance? Could she have the fortitude, the courage to face him? Could he have the strength to face her, to be exactly as he was?

He knew his real ugliness ran much deeper. What would she say if she knew all of the horrible acts he committed? The murders he performed as carelessly as if it was a routine part of his day? The way he crept in the shadows, the shameless tactics he used to siphon money from the clueless - yet corrupt - management? He had even contributed to her superstitions with his deceptive angel business.

Looking in this mirror, he recalled the last face he saw beside his own in its reflection - Nadir. The man had shown him kindness and guidance in the little time they spent together and he fought against it viciously, instinctively lashing out at any courtesy or humanity he showed him. He fought like a tiger in a trap because he knew that any friendship shown to him came to a bad end. He remembered that final night - Nadir putting his hands on his shoulders to steady him, to give him strength to flee and go out into the world on his own at the risk of Nadir's life. Warm and real human contact, touch without cruelty. And then, the necessary brutality - the Punjab lasso tightening just until Nadir lost consciousness.

And where was his old friend now? Possibly dead or worse - prolonged torture to glean any information of the escape.

He felt as if he could sense his long gone friend's presence nearby. It was as if his hands were once again on his shoulders and his face was there in the mirror, telling him to be brave, that he had all that he needed within him, that he deserved better than a half-life in the shadows.

But did he deserve to be loved?

His hands tightened into fists on the table. He bowed his head and wept.


	13. Wandering

After untold hours of wrestling with his revelations, a new fiery impulse gripped him. He wanted to know everything he could about this vicomte Raoul. In the very earliest morning hours he slipped into the managers' office to read the records of those who reserved the box seats. He found a comte - Phillipe de Chagny - but no Raoul. Philippe was well known backstage...perhaps this was the elder brother? How convenient - his box was right across from five.

He returned to his home and paced the floor, ticking each hour down until the doors opened, ready for the evening's performance. He dressed to the nines and raced to his box, esconcing himself in the darkness and keeping his eyes glued to the de Chagny's seats across the way.

Eventually, the occupant made his appearance. Impeccably dressed and with salted hair that made him look older than what he estimated were his 40-some years, Phillipe looked exactly as one would imagine a titled patron of the opera to look like. He recognized him as one of Sorelli's men; he'd been genial and gentlemanly enough whenever he visited backstage. He hadn't come alone; a few men his own age accompanied by wives or mistresses settled into the seats next to him. No Raoul the vicomte tonight, it seemed. He scowled, feeling dissatisfied and restless. La Carlotta only irritated him further with her entrance number. And Christine? Did she cast her eyes up, searching for this vicomte?

No; she seemed entirely focused on her performance. He could pick her voice out from the others now, even though he told her to hold back until it was time. It was at a fraction of the power that she was capable of, yet it seemed to be all he could hear. He felt the emotion he was trying desperately to deny winding itself around and around inside of himself and wanted so badly to succumb to it…

Madame Giry made another late appearance, a welcome distraction.

"Monsieur…"

"Good evening," he answered. "The production is quite entertaining tonight, don't you think? Here - I have a little something for you." He turned, unafraid to face her as he was wearing his mask tonight, and handed her a wrapped box of English sweets that she was partial to.

"You seem to be in better spirits these days…"

"Well," he shifted in his seat. "Things have improved, haven't they? Listen - the orchestra is playing perfectly tonight; I believe the woodwinds got straightened out. Little Meg is doing quite well…"

"She should be. I've been keeping her at rehearsals, keeping her away from those prowlers in the back." Giry snorted. "In any case, I have news for you."

"News?"

"The rumors are true - new managers are coming in. You need to prepare for that change."

He paused. Poligny hadn't mentioned it to him during their last conversation but he was aware the man was looking to get out of the management business. Perhaps this would muddle his plans...but perhaps it was more fortuitous than predicted. A few inexperienced newcomers - no doubt as superstitious as any other theater people - and a bit of chaos could create the perfect environment for a humble mouse to ascend to stardom.

"Thank you, Madame. Perhaps a big change is needed around here for things to truly improve."

Needing to return to her duties, she gave him a curt nod and left.

He didn't suffer through Carlotta's endless encores and instead hurried to the abandoned dressing room. He regretted that he last left Christine so distraught; would she return tonight? He didn't need to ask - she was still in her costume and with only her thin shawl around her pale shoulders, having come straight from the stage to the room and calling for him.

"I'm here," he said, and the moment she heard his voice, she sunk to her knees, an expression of relief washing over her face.

He thought he was prepared to face her, was riding high on the success of her performance, and yet the joy rushed out of him all at once. Melancholy quickly dropped over him, like a shadow. He knew the moment was coming when he would have to let her go, and there was still the unseen threat of that little chap she mentioned yanking her away from her star turn. Being a voice suddenly didn't seem good enough anymore. He wanted to reach out to her through the mirror - but that was impossible.

"I didn't mean to make you angry, angel," she said, worry catching in the creases between her eyebrows.

"Christine...I'm sorry I left you so suddenly last time. That was unkind of me."

"Angel...I should be the one apologizing. I realized that maybe you are jealous, jealous of my childhood friend."

His head shot up. It was as if she was reading his mind! Yes, he was consumed with jealousy - but as a heavenly envoy, should that be a possibility?

"If you were to bestow your heart on earth, then there's nothing more for me to do but go back to Heaven…"

Should she give her heart to this boy that he hadn't even laid eyes on yet he would surely be in Hell. Ah, but he was already burning!

"I can't bear to hear so much sorrow in your voice! It pains me to think that you suspect that I would renounce our music! Raoul was just my dear childhood friend, that's all. Even if I had other aspirations, well...his position in society would forbid it. It's hardly worth considering!"

There were more impossible things to consider than a beautiful, talented girl falling for a titled, no doubt handsome aristocrat. His hands clenched into fists and he held his chin to his chest in silence.

"Angel…?"

"Do you want a story tonight, Christine?"

She perked up. "Yes! Always…"

"It's a story I've wanted to tell you for a long time."

"I can't wait to hear it!"

"Do you know the story of the minotaur?"

Christine paused, thinking. "Yes, I believe so. The ancient fable, a man with the head of a bull, wandering in a labyrinth, hunting people, right?"

"Yes, that's it. Now have you heard of the allegory of Plato's cave?"

"No, but I think I've heard of Plato. Wasn't he an old Greek philosopher?"

"Correct. In his allegory of the cave, he posited this idea: imagine there is a prisoner chained in a cave facing a wall. There is a fire behind him, and sometimes people move in front of the fire, casting shadows on the wall. This is all the prisoner knows."

"How awful!" A soft little crease reappeared between her eyebrows.

"Yes...and there's more. One day, the prisoner is freed. They wander out of the cave and realize that all of the shadows that they thought comprised the real world are just dark, two dimensional shapes and the entire world is so much more complex."

"That's how I feel after knowing you, angel," Christine said. "The world is so much more...real; there's so much I'm learning."

"That's very flattering," he said. "Some things aren't worth knowing, though."

He was silent for a bit, making Christine prompt him to go on.

"Alright...here is your story. You may not like to hear it but I feel you should.

Once upon a time, there was a child. He was kept locked in a dark room where there was only a small window way up high to provide light. This is all the child knows of life, the shapes in the dark."

Christine gasped. "That's awful! What about the child's parents?"

"There was no father to speak of. At times, the mother would throw him a bowl of gruel or hold him down and scrub him clean under a pitcher of cold water. Because this is all the child knew of his mother, this is what he thought affection was. This was his interpretation of a mother's love."

At this, Christine bowed her head, pressing her lips against the knuckles of her clenched hands. Little did she know, her prayers were reaching that child now, mending the rifts in his soul.

He went on: "One day, the child's mother sold him - "

"SOLD him? Oh, I can't go on! This is terrible - I can scarcely stand to hear it! What kind of mother sells a child?"

"Christine, you must hear this story now so that you can see everything later," he said firmly.  
"I'll listen, I'll listen…" She worked the fabric of her skirt within her hands.

"The child was made to perform various things for his captors. He was beaten every day until he no longer felt pain. He was starved until he no longer knew hunger. He was sold back and forth over the years until one day, he was brought to a beautiful palace…"

Christine perked up, sensing that the story might be veering towards a happy ending. Sweet, darling Christine…

"It was the kingdom of...a god. The child had never seen anything so beautiful and was prepared to do anything to be sold to whomever owned such a magnificent kingdom. He reasoned he would be happy to be a slave to a god than a slave to a cruel human.

The god had a daughter...a little goddess. She doted on him like a cherished pet, gave him a name and an education. She dressed him in fine clothes and fed him meals fit for a prince. He sang and performed music for her night and day, learned endless tricks to keep her amused, and thought only of her happiness and her pleasure, yet it wasn't enough. You see, the little goddess had a dark side, like many deities.. She had an appetite for suffering and cruelty. Seeing that this child didn't understand right from wrong, she decided to imbue him with certain...talents. She twisted him into an angel, an angel of death."

Christine gasped.

"The little goddess crafted a frightening creature from this child, using him as a terrible toy, forcing him to wallow in blood and distorting him beyond the reach of humanity. She created a monster and set him to roam in a dark labyrinth…"

Here, his voice went silent.

Christine waited to hear more, shifting in her chair. "What else? Surely that can't be the end!"

"That's it. He is still wandering in the dark…"

"There must be a happy ending," she protested. "There must!"

"Not all stories have a happy ending."

"Well...what if he wins his freedom by answering riddles, or if there's a magic fairy that hears his pleas? Perhaps he is saved by true love's kiss - isn't that how many fairy tales end?"

Here, he was ashamed that he couldn't control himself from tamping down a faint yet unearthly sob.

"I wish…" He struggled to speak. "I wish I could see things as you do, Christine. I wish I had your innocence, your hope…"

The acute sorrow she heard in his words seemingly sent a chill deep to her core from the way she shivered before him. Christine now looked as if she could almost pinpoint his voice, could hear it coalescing behind the floor-length mirror that took up most of the wall, and she moved towards it with focused eyes.

He continued with undisguised anguish in his words, unable to control his voice. "How can you unmake a mind?"

Christine's fingers ghosted along the mirror's surface, her eyes searching for someone yet no doubt seeing only her own reflection. Would she reach for him if he appeared before her? Would she seek to comfort him as he walked through the labyrinth of his mind, lead him from the endless darkness?

After a tense moment of silence, he recovered enough to make his voice float once more beyond the mirror and into the room.

"I'm going to leave now. You should rest, it's been a long night. Be prepared, though; things will change quickly. You must be ready to take the stage soon. Goodnight, Christine, goodnight…"

Christine shivered and drew her shawl around her tighter.

* * *

 _Two updates in two days! Just the result of a very long chapter getting chopped in half. Hope you're enjoying the story, thanks as always for reading, and apologies in advance, the next chapter will probably take a little longer lol._


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